


Affairs of Conscience

by Polyphony



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, Character Death, F/M, Friendship, Mystery, Original Character(s), Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-03
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-07-29 03:34:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 51,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7668544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Polyphony/pseuds/Polyphony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <b>A German research scientist and Buchenwald survivor offers his life’s work to the highest bidder. UNCLE and THRUSH are, as usual, in competition for the prize but so also are several other global security services. Napoleon and Illya must steer their way through a dangerous maze where nothing is what it seems and a sword always has two edges. </b>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>  <b>Conflicts of interest, a dangerous femme fatale, near death in sub-zero conditions and a battle at sea to the death – our intrepid heroes must use all their resourcefulness and ingenuity to emerge victorious.</b></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Although I have vague memories of seeing reruns of this series when I was young, it was only when I was persuaded to watch the Guy Ritchie 2015 version at the cinema that I remembered how much fun it actually was. Two complete series later, I felt my years-old writers block melting away and this is the result. For anyone who has never watched Napoleon and Illya battle it out with the bad guys, Series 1 is readily available (in monochrome, no less!) on Dailymotion.
> 
> For the record, this is not a WIP, it is a finished work. However, getting each chapter completely ready for publication is not a simple matter as they are long; in fact, the whole thing is nearly 45,000 words so you have been warned. I will update chapters as close to fortnightly as I can but that may change as life gets busier.
> 
> I hope those of you who enjoyed my Sherlock stories will give this one a whirl. UNCLE was world famous in its time and made David McCallum (of NCIS - yes, really!) into a global superstar up there with The Beatles. In fact, he was nicknamed The Blond Beatle.

The New York sunshine was bright and clear. Napoleon Solo paused outside Del Floria’s to take in the air and to appreciate the passing hourglass figure of an attractive, oblivious blonde.

“She’s not your type.”

Napoleon turned his head to regard the sardonic smile of his partner, Illya Kuryakin. He raised an interrogative eyebrow.

“Her shoes,” Kuryakin explained, “They’re scuffed at the heels. They might be Roger Vivier but she doesn’t take care of them.”

“And you think this would offend my delicate sensibilities?” Napoleon responded, “Enough to prejudice me against a pretty face,” he looked back admiringly at the retreating girl, “and a beautiful _derriere?_ ”

Kuryakin shrugged as he turned towards the small tailor shop. “Possibly,” he replied over his shoulder, “if you knew how much shoes like that cost.”

“And you do?” Relinquishing the blonde with a wistful sigh, Napoleon followed Kuryakin down the stone steps, their arrival signalled by the tinkle of the shop door bell.

“Certainly, I do,” Kuryakin nodded to the elderly tailor at the counter as he and Napoleon passed by the counter on their way to the small fitting room, “Replacing them would make a serious dent, even in your salary, Napoleon; frankly, it would obliterate mine. I suggest you concentrate your attentions on ladies who are – how shall I put it? – slightly less high-maintenance.” 

“I’ll bear it in mind,” Napoleon nodded thoughtfully, turning the coat peg. 

As the two agents waited for Mr Del Floria to release the door mechanism, Napoleon reflected that no one looking at Illya Kuryakin now would realise that he had only been off the inactive list for three days. His movements were quick and fluid with no suggestion of stiffness from the gunshot wound that had immobilised him for a month. The enforced inactivity had soured Kuryakin’s already dour personality; this morning’s exchange of pleasantries was doubly welcome for having been absent for far too long. 

Oblivious to his partner’s covert scrutiny, Kuryakin swung the fitting room wall silently inward, admitting the two agents into UNCLE reception.

 

“Geraldine, my dear, you are as welcome to my sight as this bright and sunny morning!” Napoleon turned warm, brown eyes and an even warmer smile on the front desk receptionist as he leaned into her personal space to receive his security badge.

Geraldine patted Napoleon’s lapel back into place with gentle fingers. She was a remarkably pretty brunette with large, green eyes who dimpled charmingly when she smiled. She was smiling at Napoleon now.

“Mr Waverly wants to see you in his office immediately,” she told him, “Both of you,” she added, nodding towards Kuryakin, who was affixing his own badge, but keeping her worshipful eyes on Napoleon.

Napoleon gave her a lazy salute. “Seven o’clock, don’t forget,” he told her, “and work up an appetite. I promised you a very special meal at a very special restaurant, and I intend to keep that promise.”

Geraldine giggled and simpered up at him from under her lashes. Napoleon gave her a jaunty salute and turned to follow his partner.

“Doesn’t it ever get old?” 

Napoleon raised his eyebrows; his partner had the grace to flush slightly. 

“I mean, this is scarcely your first date with her, Napoleon,” the younger man continued, moving swiftly down the main corridor, “Surely this particular mystery has now been made manifest at least twice to my knowledge. You can afford to turn down the wattage.”

“Jealous, my friend?” Napoleon held open a door for a smiling redhead, watching her shapely rear retreat down the corridor, UNCLE Special tucked into the small of her back.

Kuryakin snorted softly and punched the elevator button. “Geraldine’s okay, I suppose,” came the grudging response, “but I find it hard to take seriously someone whose hobby is collecting china dolls. Does she keep them in her bedroom?” 

“A gentleman never tells, Illya,” Napoleon shrugged but his eyes twinkled.

Kuryakin shivered, “That’s _žutkij,_ my friend,” he replied sombrely, “I would not wish for an audience of a thousand eyes. You have my sympathies.”

“Oh, I don’t know, Illya,” Napoleon reached for the door to Waverly’s office, “Some of my best work has been performed in front of, ah, spectators.”

“One or two THRUSH voyeurs, maybe,” Kuryakin replied following through into the Inner Sanctum, “but an audience the size of Carnegie Hall? It would be enough even for you to lose your, um, nerve.”

Napoleon blinked, surprised enough to be wrong-footed at Kuryakin’s uncharacteristic crudeness. He recovered quickly as they passed the threshold and adopted his usual urbane smile, inwardly wondering who had rattled Illya’s cage this morning. Make that this month.

“Ah, Mr Solo,” the cultured voice made gravel by years of pipe smoking sounded chipper despite the early hour, “and Mr Kuryakin. Good morning, gentlemen, sit down. You have a mission.”

Alexander Waverly gestured into one corner of the room and Napoleon quickly hooked a chair from under the round table, turning to face the screen already being revealed from behind a sliding panel.  
A swift montage of photographs scrolled past. Napoleon closed his eyes at the suffering depicted therein, but Kuryakin sat forward in his chair.

“China, Nigeria,” he stated, “Indonesia, India, Pakistan…” He turned to stare at his chief. “These are all recent famine areas.”

“Indeed, Mr Kuryakin,” Waverly inclined his head, “and starvation remains a constant killer; fifteen million people died in China over two years of famine.”

“Sir, is UNCLE intending to tackle world poverty?” Kuryakin asked drily.

“In a way, yes,” Waverly replied, a small smile creasing his face.

He touched a button and a further montage of photographs appeared. These were more specific: a steam train in an Indian station, people on the roof, spilling out of the doors and windows; a street in China covered with steadily moving people, buses, rickshaws and bicycles; a shanty town in Morocco bursting with men, women and children living without sanitation or hope.

Waverly halted the pictures and turned to his agents. “The problem of world overpopulation,” he began, “if not addressed and solved in the very near future, will be the thing that eventually wipes out mankind. The earth’s resources are finite and once used they cannot be renewed. It is our duty as stewards on this planet to ensure that its precious resources are not squandered, and in order to do that we must make some urgent progress.”

Waverly pressed another button on his desk and the screen brightened to show a blurred photograph of a good looking man apparently in his early fifties, with sandy hair and a generous mouth. He was smiling faintly into the camera but it was clear that the image had been taken from some distance away with a telephoto lens. 

Napoleon registered Kuryakin’s sudden immobility peripherally before his own eyes narrowed in suspicion. He frowned briefly then his eyes widened.

“Josef Mengele?” Napoleon said, disbelievingly, “’Uncle Mengele’? The Nazi doctor who butchered thousands of his so-called patients in Auschwitz? This is a recent photograph, I assume? The hair is different, of course, but… Sir, does this mean that he has finally surfaced somewhere within our reach?”

“No, Mr Solo, it does not,” the old man continued imperturbably. He gestured with his pipe. “This man is not Josef Mengele, although I admit the likeness is uncanny.”

Napoleon shook his head in confusion. “If not, then who?”

Kuryakin shifted in his seat but said nothing.

“This man goes by the name of Ernst Mengele,” Waverly began, “He claims to be a younger brother of Josef on the wrong side of the blanket. Josef always denied the relationship however, and there has apparently never been any contact between the brothers. So the legend goes.” His tone was dry.

“But you don’t agree, sir?” Napoleon raised his eyebrows.

Waverley fixed Napoleon with a gimlet-eyed stare. “Let’s just say there are grounds for doubt,” he replied.

“So,” Napoleon ventured slowly into the silence, “is UNCLE planning to use Ernst Mengele to lead us to Josef? Because if you don’t mind me saying so, sir, that’s a very big job. All anyone knows about Josef Mengele is that he quietly went to ground before the end of the War. No one knows where. No one’s been able to find any trace of him for years, despite some very determined efforts.” He pressed his lips together in a line. “There are many old scores to be settled with this man. If it were possible to find him, it would have been done by now.”

“Indeed, Mr Solo,” Waverly took up the narrative, “everything you say is true. Joseph Mengele was personally responsible for countless thousands of executions among prisoners at Auschwitz concentration camp during World War 2. Additionally, he was notorious for his extreme brutality in using human subjects for so-called scientific experimentation.”

Waverly glanced down at the table top. “Despite the most determined efforts to trace him by many interested parties, Mengele is still at large,” he continued, “However, I prefer to leave this kind of thing to the professionals, gentlemen. Simon Wiesenthal and his cohorts appear to be making steady progress in this area without our assistance. Now, the man in the photograph is a different matter; he interests us much more than his brother, believe me.”

Napoleon’s expression was one of polite puzzlement. Kuryakin uncrossed his legs and leaned his elbows on the table, eyes cast down. His face was expressionless.

“Ernst Mengele is also a scientist,” Waverly gestured at the screen with the stem of his pipe, “He qualified as a doctor and had a small practice in Berlin until 1937 when he and his wife were interned; his wife was Jewish, you see.”

“Indeed,” Napoleon’s eyebrows rose, “A very different prospect from his half-brother then?” Kuryakin shifted in his seat but did not look up.

“So it would seem,” Waverly replied, chewing on his pipe stem, “Ernst remained elusive for quite some years until recently when we received information that he was in your neck of the woods, Mr Kuryakin, ostensibly working for the KGB.”

Kuryakin did not respond so after a small pause, the older man continued.

“Mengele may have followed in the family footsteps insofar as his medical career is concerned,” Waverly said, chewing thoughtfully on his pipe stem, “but that is where the similarity ceases. Although Mengele’s position as a medical doctor gave him certain privileges, both he and his wife were arrested by the SS and sent to Buchenwald where he experienced life in a concentration camp from the other side. Although this was in 1944, quite late on in the war, Mrs Mengele died before the American army could liberate the camp. Ernst, however, survived. After a brief return to Germany where he worked for the pharmaceuticals company Chemie Grünenthal in Aachen, he made his way east into Russia.

“Once across the Iron Curtain,” Waverly continued, “our information on Ernst Mengele becomes necessarily rather sketchier. He appears to have been working in medical research for the Soviet State for a number of years. However, his breakthrough pharmaceutical work he considers to be his own property based on research done independently of his official position.”

Kuryakin’s eyes snapped up. “I’m fairly certain the Kremlin wouldn’t agree with him,” he added dryly, speaking for the first time.

“Indeed,” Waverly nodded, “They are very unhappy to lose him. So unhappy, in fact, that his impending departure for the West has sparked a serious split in the Russian administration.”

“Oh?” Napoleon tapped his index finger absently against his bottom lip and shot a quick glance at his partner. Kuryakin did not return it.

“We have received a communication from a source very close to the Premier,” Waverly continued gravely, “It seems that Dr Mengele’s research has very interesting ramifications…”

“Sir.” 

Kuryakin rose to his feet. Waverly’s eyebrows nearly reached his hairline; he was entirely unaccustomed to being interrupted, particularly in his own office.

“Mr Kuryakin, do you have a problem?” he enquired formally.

“Yes, sir, I do,” Kuryakin straightened and looked his chief in the eye, “I do not feel comfortable with this assignment.”

Waverly stared. “Am I to take it that you feel you have a conflict of interest, Mr Kuryakin?” he demanded coolly.

Kuryakin nodded. “Yes, sir, you may,” he said firmly, “Whatever information you have received regarding Kremlin politics, I can neither confirm nor deny, nor do I expect you to put me in the position of having to do so.” His tone was flat, the words clipped.

Waverly’s frown deepened. He removed his pipe from his mouth and regarded his agent balefully; Kuryakin stared back, undaunted.

“Mr Kuryakin,” Waverly said soberly, “when you were first assigned to UNCLE, it was made very clear both to you and to your KGB superiors that although best efforts would be made to avoid putting you in an invidious position as regards your loyalties, the bottom line would have to be your allegiance to UNCLE. Am I to take it that you no longer feel able to fulfil your commitments?”

Kuryakin shook his head. He opened his mouth, sighed then tried again. 

“Sir,” he began carefully, “it is difficult for me to explain the reasons for my misgivings without making them redundant. I must respectfully request that you send someone else on this mission. I can recommend…”

“And your request is denied,” Waverly’s sharp brown eyes flashed with anger. “Your specialist skills are absolutely paramount in this situation, and I cannot sanction any other agent. You have my word that you will not be required to betray any of your loyalties. Now sit down, Mr Kuryakin, and let us finish this briefing!”

Slowly, reluctantly Kuryakin resumed his chair but his expressionless face bothered Napoleon to the extent that he had to focus his attention at the double to avoid being called out by his chief for inattentiveness.

“Now,” continued Waverly, gesturing with his pipe as if nothing had happened, “UNCLE’s interest in Ernst Mengele stems from his ground-breaking research in the area of human birth control.”

There was a short silence, during which Napoleon gave a startled chuckle which he hastily morphed into a cough.

“Ahem! Well,” Napoleon covered his lapse by reaching for his pocket handkerchief, “it’s certainly a very worthwhile pursuit and I’m sure all the members of the Women’s Liberation Movement would be behind UNCLE’s interest one hundred per cent, but sir…”

“You’re missing the point, Napoleon, as usual,” Kuryakin interrupted tetchily, once again rising to his feet, “You hardly ever keep up with the latest scientific journals, nor do you read the reports we regularly receive from our assets all over the world.” 

“That’s not true!” Napoleon protested hotly. Kuryakin raised an eyebrow. 

Napoleon shrugged, deflating. “Well, I read some of them,” he muttered. 

Kuryakin smiled wryly and shook his head.

“Very well, Mr Kuryakin,” Waverly gestured with the stem of his pipe, “Suppose you tell us what you know.”

Kuryakin paused for a moment then inclined his head and obediently rose to his feet, moving swiftly over to the screen.

“Ernst Mengele,” he began, gesturing to the smiling man on the screen, “has a first-class brain; he is a true scientist, unlike his brother who is a bungling amateur. What they both share is a healthy belief in their own superiority. Ernst Mengele has identified a worldwide problem and has dedicated himself to solving it – in his own way.”

Kuryakin paused to gather his thoughts.

“When the first contraceptive pill was released in America just a few years ago,” he continued, “it was hailed as the greatest breakthrough in womens’ autonomy ever created. Within one year, more than a million American women were using the new drug. European women were not far behind and very soon Australia and New Zealand followed suit. However, Third World women, who are looked on as most at risk from a spiralling birth rate, have always proved resistant both to the practice and, more importantly, to the idea of limiting their fertility.”

Napoleon stared at his partner in astonishment. Since when was Illya an expert on women’s health?

“However, Ernst Mengele looked at the twin Third World problems of an unsustainable birth rate and a shocking rate of infant mortality and decided that the problem was one born of ignorance rather than of poverty,” Kuryakin continued, “Many experts who have made any kind of study of the world’s poorest regions are now in agreement; a high birth rate amongst those in extreme poverty is not a cause but a response to that poverty. Families have eight, nine, ten or more children, fully half of whom regularly die in infancy. This is a human tragedy, but it is also a deliberate strategy to ensure the survival of the family. Unfortunately, the major governments of the world still cling to the outmoded theory that birth control will solve the problems of poverty. Ernst Mengele is one of a handful of scientists who is also of that opinion.”

Kuryakin paused for a moment then sighed.

“The contraceptive pill is designed for First World living,” Kuryakin told them, “It has to be prescribed by a licensed doctor and taken every day at the same time without fail. In a society where time is only approximate, privacy non-existent and the nearest medical facility three days’ walk away, this was never going to work. So Ernst Mengele developed a One-Time-Treatment.” 

Napoleon’s eyes widened. “You mean just one injection and…?” 

But Kuryakin was shaking his head. “No, Napoleon,” he said quietly, “not even an injection. Just one dose taken by mouth, period.”

“But…” Napoleon tried to wrap his head round that, “But – is that all? I mean, how…”

“Mr Kuryakin is correct,” Waverly interrupted, “and I congratulate him on his succinct and accurate presentation of the data. Now, Doktor Mengele has received permission to take a well-earned skiing holiday at a small resort in the Caucasus Mountains. Mr Kuryakin, you will conduct the good doctor from thence to the Black Sea coast where you will be met and conveyed by sea to the Turkish coast and from thence by air to UNCLE Istanbul; they have been fully briefed. Section 8 will issue you with details of your cover: your passport and travel documents have already been prepared. You are a sports teacher and skiing enthusiast from Moscow - neither of these factors should tax your skills too greatly. Your flight leaves at 0600 hours tomorrow morning by which time you will have absorbed the contents both of Mengele’s file and your own cover.” Waverly passed a slim folder across the table. Kuryakin stared at it but made no move to pick it up. 

“Oh, and Mr Kuryakin,” Waverly regarded his agent speculatively. “You can work around your misgivings over this mission while you pack. I expect nothing but your fullest attention, is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.” Kuryakin swept up the folder from the desk and marched stiff-backed from the room.

“Mr Solo,” Waverly turned to his CEO, effectively dismissing Kuryakin, “You will liaise with UNCLE Istanbul and co-ordinate the mission from New York.”

“Sir, wouldn’t it be more effective if I were there on the ground?” Napoleon suggested mildly, watching the door close behind his partner.

Waverly removed his pipe from his mouth. “What is wrong with you young men this morning?” he demanded in exasperation, “I am unused to having my orders questioned. Mr Solo, you will coordinate this extraction with your opposite number in Turkey from your position in the New York office, and there will be an end to it!”

 

Napoleon found himself in the corridor outside his chief’s office almost without his own volition. He shook his head and turned on his heel, trying to rid himself of the distinct feeling that he had missed something. The feeling intensified half an hour later when, after tracking his partner through the commissary, the labs and the gym, he finally chased him down in their shared office.

To anyone unfamiliar with his ways, Kuryakin appeared to be working. He had spread a sheaf of papers over his desk in small piles, each of which he consulted periodically as he ploughed his way through a lengthy report held in his hands. 

Napoleon was unmoved. He crossed the office floor and kicked his partner’s feet out from under him. Kuryakin, barely managing to prevent himself faceplanting into the desk, glared back at Napoleon.

“You were wanting something?” he growled, “Let me guess: coffee? Funds for your date tonight? Re-writing your last three mission reports?”

“A drink,” Napoleon told him firmly, “With you. Now. Somewhere that isn’t UNCLE HQ. Ready to go?”

Kuryakin frowned. “And if I don’t want a drink?” he responded sitting back in his chair, “I have the rest of this report to plough through, plus the cross-referencing with these five other papers…”

“That’s bull and you know it!” Napoleon dared to reach out and grab his partner’s arm. He forced his features into their customary good-humoured facade. “Time to call it quits for the evening, partner. I know a place where the Martinis are strong and cold, but the music is scorching.”

Kuryakin frowned up at him mutinously but Napoleon's smile did not waver.

“I could make that an order,” he added quietly. 

Kuryakin’s full lips set in a thin line. Mutinously, he shoved the file he had been working on into a desk drawer, locked it and reached for his jacket.

 

The place turned out to be a tiny dive in the middle of the Italian quarter that had no name over the door and just a couple of peeling posters on the outer wall advertising household appliances and an expired off-Broadway show respectively. Accustomed to his partner’s idiosyncrasies, Kuryakin didn’t even blink but followed Napoleon downstairs, through a dark tunnel and out into a dimly lit room hazy with cigarette smoke and a hint of something less legal. 

The place was clearly popular. More than half the tables were already occupied although the night was still very young, and the barkeep was doing brisk business. The room was not overly large with tables and chairs wedged into nooks and crannies around a small stage bare of everything except a battered baby grand piano, currently unoccupied.

Napoleon stood in the doorway and surveyed the scene for a moment before taking off towards an empty table in a shadowed corner. Following in his wake, Kuryakin glanced round casually and nodded, noting the service stairs, the fire escape and the incurious glances of the other patrons.  
Almost as soon as they sat down, Napoleon flagged a passing waitress and ordered drinks for both of them without consultation. Kuryakin let him get on with it, keeping a weather eye on the bar for anything untoward.

“It’s okay, you can relax,” Napoleon said without looking up, “This is an occasional haunt of mine, it’s been checked out any number of times. It’s clean; it’s always clean.”

“Who did the checking?” Kuryakin retorted snidely, “You?”

“You wound me,” Napoleon reproached, clutching his chest briefly in the vicinity of his heart, “I’ll have you know I can be very thorough.”

“When you bother at all,” Kuryakin replied but the comment held no bite. He looked around him with interest. “How did you find it?”

“Luck and the right contacts,” Napoleon smiled winningly at the waitress as she delivered their drinks but she was clearly too busy to enjoy it. He made a moue of disappointment and raised the frosted glass. “Here’s to health,” he said whimsically, “wealth, truth and beauty.”

“The latter two concepts are synonymous,” Kuryakin remarked, “if we are to believe the poet John Keats.” But he drank his Martini with every indication of satisfaction.

Napoleon took his time, telling anecdotes, making amusing observations about the other patrons, the wait staff, the barkeep, all the time keeping a speculative eye on his partner. Kuryakin for his part waited him out, enjoying his drink and the surroundings.

Presently, a curvaceous woman with skin like satin and burnished auburn hair arranged in an artfully dishevelled chignon quietly ascended the stage and started to play the piano. The worn exterior of the old instrument belied its sweet, mellow tone and recent tuning. Kuryakin sat back in his chair and closed his eyes; presently the woman began to sing in a warm, throaty alto.

“Sooh,” Napoleon drawled the word, stroking over the vowel. Kuryakin opened one eye.

“Hmm?” he replied.

“What gives, Illya?” Napoleon finally came to the point. 

Kuryakin sighed. He drew his legs under him and sat up in his chair, picking up his empty glass and signalling to the waitress.

“That depends,” he replied, twirling the stem between two fingers and thumb.

“On what?”

“On who is asking.”

Napoleon frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he said sharply.

Kuryakin shrugged. “I mean,” he replied evenly, “are you asking as my friend, my partner or my superior?”

Napoleon blinked. “Does it matter?”

“I’m afraid it does,” Kuryakin stared into the bottom of his glass.

The waitress slid two fresh drinks onto the table; the singer crooned a slow blues version of ‘Do Nothing Till You Hear From Me.’

Napoleon sighed. “Alright,” he said, “I’ll lay it on the line. I think you’ve received some intel from your contacts in the KGB. I think you received it a little while ago and you’ve been mulling it around in that supercharged brain of yours until two and two makes infinity squared.”

Kuryakin didn’t even flinch. “Go on,” he said quietly.

Napoleon nodded. “I think that intel has something to do with this Ernst Mengele; maybe his past, maybe his current work in the Soviet Union, may be a bit of both but whatever it is, it’s got you tied up in knots, Illya.” His tone was gentle,

Kuryakin’s fingertip traced a thin line in the condensation on the outside of his glass. 

“And if your surmise were true?” For the first time Kuryakin looked up and locked eyes with his partner. “If this were the case and if I were to tell you of this hypothetical information, Napoleon, what would you do with such knowledge?”

Napoleon held Kuryakin’s gaze for a few moments, then he sighed and looked away.

“I would have to report it to Mr Waverly,” he said gently, reluctantly, “You know that, Illya.”

“Yes, I do,” Kuryakin’s voice was resigned but not disappointed. He drained his glass in one swallow, replaced it on the table and stood, reaching for his wallet. Napoleon half rose from his chair in protest but Kuryakin ignored him and threw some bills onto the table.

“Thank you for the drink, and for the company, Napoleon,” he said, shunting his chair back under the table, “You will excuse me as I have an early flight and have yet to pack.”

Napoleon stood helplessly as his partner strode away from him towards the exit. _Slickly done there, Napoleon,_ his inner voice sneered, _if he comes back from this in one piece, he’ll be putting in for a new partner. Or returning to Russia._ Napoleon considered his half-finished drink, sighed and sank down into his chair once again. 

Turning back towards the stage he caught the eye of the jazz singer who smiled broadly, played a particularly showy improvisatory passage and finished it with a flourish and a wink. Napoleon felt his lips curve in a smile; perhaps the evening would not be a total bust after all.


	2. Herr Doktor Mengele

Illya Kuryakin disliked air travel. That is to say, whenever possible he preferred to travel over land, even if he risked awkward things like roadblocks, ambushes and night driving. He hated the sea with a passion inspired by the level of motion sickness he suffered during his stint in the Russian navy. Air travel mercifully did not involve him in the same discomposure, but he found the enforced inactivity trying and the process of relinquishing his personal safety to a pilot undoubtedly less skilled than himself a definite struggle.

By the time Illya arrived at the agreed meeting place, he had endured both planes and boats, had been travelling for more than 24 hours and all he wanted was a good hot shower, something to fill his stomach and a soft bed. 

It looked as though none of those things was going to be available to him in the near future.

The guest house Vokzal was described as a small, family-run establishment, quiet and off the beaten track. In reality, it was one of a number of shabby wooden huts set around a frozen, unsurfaced road which would, Illya knew from experience, become a muddy bog come springtime. Having absorbed the mission briefing notes back in New York, he was unsurprised at the prospect of a 5km hike up the valley to the ancient chairlifts which would then take another wind-chilled, below zero hour to reach the rough pistes of the isolated Caucasian ski slopes. With luck, he would not have to use them. Illya had learned to ski in the Urals on a KGB survival course and it had never ceased to amaze him how many hardy Russian souls actually pursued the activity for pleasure. 

Reception at the Vokzal was a dim, uncarpeted hallway lit by one bare 40W bulb, with several closed doors leading off and a stairway to one side. Calling for service, in Moscow-accented Russian, produced no response so Illya rapped on each of the doors in turn until one opened reluctantly. A middle-aged, overweight man with a balding head of grey hair glared balefully at Illya. 

“Why do you make so much noise?” the man spat in almost incomprehensible Armenian, “Who the hell are you, waking us all up at this time?”

Illya recognised the rich voice of Adiss Harmandian drifting tinnily into the corridor from a radiogramophone deep in the bowels of the room behind and sighed inaudibly. His Armenian was passable and he was tempted to point out that, even though it was almost full dark outside, the time was actually only seven in the evening. However, his cover persona - a Moscow-based PE teacher without the funds to do his skiing in Chamonix or Val d’sere – was unlikely to speak anything other than Russian and a little halting English. Patiently Illya explained, with much repetition and hand gesturing, that he had made a booking by telegram a week ago. Persistence eventually won out, along with a broadening of Illya’s knowledge of Armenian curses and a confirmation that his host genuinely did not speak Russian. Illya made a mental note to haul Section 8 over the coals for skimping on their research. 

With a heavy sigh, the proprietor heaved his reluctant bulk up the creaking staircase, flinging open a rough wooden door and silently gesturing Illya inside. The man gave no further instructions nor did he offer to help carry Illya’s bag, for which Illya was grateful when he considered the assorted weaponry it contained. Privately, Illya wondered how on earth the man made a living.

Once in his room, Illya carefully scoped out the potential exits, noting that while there was no fire escape, there was a handy pine tree within clutching distance of the window which would do at a pinch. The room was on the corner of the house which left Illya with double aspect vantage points. The drawback to this arrangement was that neither window would close properly.

The accommodation was sparse; a large bed with clean but thin linens, a worn armchair, a similarly scuffed wardrobe and a rug covering the bare boards. The shared bathroom was down the hall. Illya shivered; the whole place was freezing and there was ice on the inside of the window panes. He propped his rucksack in the corner of the room and went back downstairs.

His Moscow Russian having apparently failed to get the words “heater” and “blankets” over to the surly proprietor, Illya gave it up as a bad job and asked instead where he might get something to eat. He was grudgingly directed to the house across the street which, unlike the others, sported a dimly glowing lantern outside the door. Illya thanked the man, smiling as he wished him, in Russian, cholera, typhoid and gangrene in his _khuy._ The man barely nodded, before turning back to his own apartment. 

The wind blew a thousand stinging needles into Illya’s face as he crossed the street. The lantern cast a pool of yellow light over the snow outside the tavern, and from behind the thick wooden door could be heard a rumble of conversation and faint strains of music. Illya put a hand to the latch. 

The blast of heat, light and smoke as the door swung open was shocking after the silence of the dark, snowy street. Illya’s eyes watered. He stood on the threshold stamping the snow from his boots and coughed involuntarily as the thick atmosphere chased the searing cold from his lungs.  
The patrons were all locals, as was made clear by the sudden silence and frank curiosity with which they eyed him. Illya closed the door, nodded at the proprietor and made his way over to the bar. The buzz of conversation gradually resumed.

Illya was immediately served with a shot glass of something cold and clear which he picked up and knocked back without hesitation. The stuff was eye-wateringly strong. The proprietor looked on with approval as Illya struggled to breathe and, when his guest had recovered his composure sufficiently to gasp in a breath, handed him a mug of warm, yeasty dark beer. Considerably warmed and invigorated by his ordeal, Illya loosened the fastenings of his parka and shook ice crystals from his hair, taking the opportunity to scope out the room.

There was sawdust on the bare floorboards and the wooden furniture was bruised and mismatched, but the fire in the grate was bright and warm and in the corner a gypsy guitar was being played sweet and low, just under the conversational buzz. Illya sipped his beer, reminded strongly of his childhood home in Kiev.

“They say music is the food of love.” 

The words were softly spoken in English, meant for Illya's ears only. Illya turned slowly, feeling the pull of his shoulder holster, and stared at the barman. The man met his eyes impassively.

“But the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach,” Illya replied in Russian.

His companion grinned. “He’s out back,” he said, jerking his head towards the rear of the establishment. He swiped over the surface of the bar with a damp rag. 

Illya made no move. “Your English is very good,” he commented blandly, “Quite, um, natural.”

The man nodded without looking up from his task. “Yes,” he replied matter of factly, “Mr, ah, Nicholaiev, isn't it?” 

The man’s eyes crinkled slightly at the corners. _So much for the alias._ Illya sighed inwardly and nodded. “Indeed, Mr…?”

The proprietor smiled, a flash of white teeth. “Call me Mikhail; I own this establishment. Your man is in the back room having dinner. He arrived two days ago.” 

Mikhail gave Illya a sharp look. “He's been waiting for you,” he said, “You are late. There's been no one else for him to ski with and it's dangerous to go alone.” He grinned suddenly and leaned over the bar. “Between you and me, I think the good Doktor is suffering from cabin fever.”

Mikhail straightened and started to gather the empty glasses. “This snowfall shouldn’t last past tonight,” he told Illya, “You should have a good, clear day of it tomorrow. Unless the wind changes, of course.”

“Is it likely to?” Illya replied evenly.

Mikhail shrugged. “Who knows?” he said, “Weather in these parts can be fickle. Fickle as a beautiful woman – or a bird.”

To his credit, Illya did not miss a beat. _“Vidna ptitsa po polyotu,”_ he said carefully, holding Mikhail’s glance. The other man did not respond.

“The bird is known by its flight,” Illya translated, “An old Russian proverb. I'm surprised you don't know of it, but for your information, an English equivalent would be ‘you will know the tree by its fruit’.”

Mikhail’s cheerful smile did not quite meet his eyes. “Proverbs, birds,” he replied, shaking his head, “I have as little to do with either as I can. It makes for a quieter life, Mr Nicholaiev, as I'm sure you understand.”

“Oh, I understand, my friend, only too well,” Illya looked around the cosy, well-kept room with its brightly burning fire. “You have rooms here?” he enquired, abruptly changing the subject.

“Of course,” Mikhail replied cheerfully, “but we’re fully booked.”

Illya sighed, thinking of his freezing billet across the road. “I don’t suppose I could sleep on the floor in here, could I?”

Mikhail gave a bark of laughter and turned to serve another customer. Illya picked up his glass and wove his way carefully between the tables to the room at the back.

The noise of music and conversation faded away as Illya ducked under a low door lintel into a small private room. He found his mark seated at a rough refectory table eating what looked like a mutton stew with beans and potatoes. 

Herr Doktor Ernst Mengele’s photograph had not done him justice, Illya found himself thinking. Salt and pepper hair with aquiline features, Mengele appeared to be in his early to mid-forties although Illya knew for a fact that the man was fifty-two. As he entered, Mengele raised his head and rose from his chair in polite greeting. Without speaking, he gestured peremptorily to the other chair and turned to a curtained-off door in the corner of the room. 

“Sofiya!” he shouted. A sullen-looking girl in a grubby apron appeared in response. Mengele rattled off instructions for another plate of food in perfect idiomatic Russian. The girl left without acknowledging him.

“Don’t worry,” Mengele assured Illya as he resumed his seat, “she looks as though she couldn’t count past five, and maybe she can’t – who knows? Who cares. But she’ll serve you and clear away well enough and the food’s quite good. I know you haven’t had dinner. How do I know? Because you’re staying at that flea pit across the road. Old skinflint!” He made a dismissive gesture. “He’d sell his own mother if he hadn’t already worked her into her grave.”

Mengele continued to eat with every indication of acceptance if not quite enjoyment. Illya hung his parka over the back of his chair, finally warm enough to dispense with it, and sat down, suddenly weary to his bones.

“Ernst Mengele, I presume?” he said resting one hand around his beer glass, “Stepan Ivanovitch Nicolaiev. I am here to take you to Istanbul.”

“Guilty as charged,” the man responded, “Sometimes a surname is an advantage, sometimes a curiosity and sometimes a downright curse.”

Sofiya re-entered the small room carrying a laden tray.

“And yet you made significant efforts to confirm yours, as I understand it,” Illya replied, sitting back in his chair to receive a steaming plate of stew and some cutlery from the sullen girl. He smiled his thanks and a large basket of fresh bread also appeared in front of him. Sofiya gestured to Illya’s nearly empty mug of ale with an unspoken question and he nodded in assent.

Mengele made a face then shrugged. “What was I to do?” he replied, “When everybody knows your history, why try to deny it? Heaven knows, my mother didn’t, and frankly my surname was one reason I survived the war when so many died.”

“Interesting,” Illya replied. When Mengele offered nothing further, Illya filed that one away for later. 

“Your wife was not so fortunate, I understand,” Illya continued; he raised his eyebrows in polite query.

Mengele sighed not at all put out. “Poor Berta,” he said, his eyes going unfocussed with memory for a moment. He shook his head and dug his fork back into his stew.

“She was a very good cook, you know,” Mengele continued, scraping his plate, “She could make a much better _casserole_ than this – and with far less in the way of raw materials.”

Illya took up his fork and surveyed the savoury-smelling dish, but he found his appetite had disappeared. He reached for his newly replenished beer instead, took a pull and leaned towards Mengele.

“Can we talk?” he asked in a low voice.

Mouth still occupied, Mengele nodded vigorously, tilting his head towards the bar.

“We’re perfectly safe here,” he said, swallowing, “Mikhail is… well, let’s just say Mikhail is safe.”

“You trust him?”

“Well, I wouldn’t go that far!” Mengele let out an uproarious laugh, “You know what I mean. You must do in your line of work, eh?”

“How good a skier are you?” Illya asked abruptly.

Mengele was cleaning his plate with a hunk of the bread. He paused for a moment and wrinkled his nose.

“Fair to middling,” he replied, “but the slopes here vary. There are some quite easy trails despite the rough snow.”

“Irrelevant, as we won't be using them,” Illya explained, “How are you cross country?”

Mengele frowned. “I assumed we’d be in a helicopter,” he replied, “or at least using some kind of vehicle. You’re not serious, are you? Skiing cross-country all the way to the coast? That’s nearly 70 kilometres – it’s impossible.”

Illya nodded. “Maybe it is, for you at least,” he replied thoughtfully. 

Mengele crammed the last of the bread in his mouth, shaking his head. “Mikhail has a vehicle that we can use,” he insisted, “He keeps it in the old barn behind the tavern. I’m sure he’d be willing for us to use it. For a price, of course.”

Illya nodded. “That’s very – convenient,” he said, “How old is this vehicle?”

Mengele pushed his chair back, dabbing at his mouth with a handkerchief. “Come and see,” he said, shrugging on a thick, Inuit-style parka which probably cost three times as much as everything Illya had on his back, including his weaponry.

They left the tavern by the back door through the kitchen, with Sofiya’s expressionless gaze following them. Mengele led the way through the swirling snowflakes to a small barn close to the main building. He opened the heavy door and Illya took a breath, letting it out gradually in a disbelieving huff. Inside was a genuine, honest-to-goodness Tucker Sno Cat.

Illya’s eyes narrowed. He moved around the vehicle, noting the battered exterior and the scraped paintwork, the newness of the four tracks, the lack of rust and the apparent good order of the engine. Someone had clearly been maintaining this vehicle with an unprecedented degree of expertise and access to spare parts.

“You said it belongs to the proprietor, Mikhail?” Illya said, stepping back from the vehicle.

Mengele nodded. “Yes,” he replied, pleased with himself and grinning broadly; he had a gap between his two front teeth.

“Mikhail must be making a very good living out of the tavern,” Illya commented drily.

Mengele’s smile twisted slightly. “I doubt that very much,” he replied, “I'm fairly convinced that much of his relative prosperity comes from, shall we say, somewhat less legal sources.”

The corner of Illya’s mouth twitched in an almost-smile. “You think he’s _Bratva_?” he replied, “Herr Doktor, if Mikhail is in organised crime then why is he living in a hovel like this?”

Mengele threw up his hands with a dismissive grunt. “Who knows?” he replied, “and who cares? As long as we can use it to get the hell out of here, I’m not fussy as to where he got it from?”

“Hmm,” Illya rumbled, looking for the catch of the bonnet, “You will excuse me if I subject this particular gift horse to a dentist’s examination.”

“Suit yourself,” Mengele shrugged and buried his hands in the pockets of his parka, “I’m going back into the tavern. Sofiya might not look much but her _vatrushka_ is amazing – she makes it with sour cherries and sweet curd cheese.” He exited the barn door letting in a swirl of snow as he did so. Illya sighed heavily and fished out his gloves.

Some little time later, Illya straightened his aching back and clapped his hands together, trying to thaw out his frozen fingers. Satisfied that the engine hid no unpleasant surprises, he climbed into the cab and found the keys set into the ignition. The Sno Cat started sweetly first time without coughing or catching. Illya turned off the engine and returned to the tavern. He was developing a headache.

Meanwhile Mengele, having finished what looked like two portions of _vatrushka,_ had started drinking in earnest. Spurning the brown beer, the good Doktor ordered Sofiya to bring a bottle of the same clear, colourless alcohol given to Illya when he arrived. Illya declined to emulate his companion, choosing instead to stick to the surprisingly flavoursome beer.

Mengele lifted his glass in a silent toast and eyed Illya darkly. “Too rich for you, eh?” he said with a slight sneer.

Illya shook his head, unoffended. “I merely prefer to retain both my sight and my mental capacity,” he replied, nodding at the unmarked bottle, “That, Herr Doktor, is _chacha,_ a homebrewed spirit supposedly made from grape must left in the wine press after extracting the juice, although anything in the fruit variety that is readily available will suffice as a raw material. Mikhail gave me a shot to get my circulation going when I arrived and if my taste buds don’t deceive me, this particular version is made from figs, a little like Turkish _boukha._ ”

“So?” Mengele gestured expansively, “I’m not too proud or too picky to turn up my nose at the local hooch.”

“A good communist attitude that you may live to regret,” Illya replied drily, “Expert distillers in this part of the world are few and far between, and as a medical man you well know, methanol is deadly to the central nervous system.”

Mengele’s smile faded and he frowned suspiciously at the glass in his hand. Looking up at Illya his face creased into a sudden broad grin and he slapped the unsuspecting UNCLE agent hard on the shoulder. Illya narrowly avoided hitting the table top face first.

“Very good!” Mengele boomed, clearly well on the way to intoxication, “I nearly fell for that one. Do you play poker, my friend? You certainly have the face for it! Come now, there’s no way Mikhail would ever sell anything tainted, it would ruin his business forever.”

“I bow to your superior knowledge,” Illya replied equably, “but as the English say, there’s many a slip twixt cup and lip. Doktor, do you not think that maybe we should call it a night now and get some rest? We have a long hard road to the coast tomorrow and some of it may have to be traversed on skis – we may be forced to abandon the Sno Cat once we gain altitude.” 

“Nonsense!” Mengele poured another shot, miraculously managing to get it in the glass, “Have another mug of that horse piss you've got there if you’re too much of a sissy to drink the moonshine. Hey, perhaps Sofiya could be persuaded to provide some, uhm, entertainment, what do you think?”

“I think she is employed to cook, Herr Mengele, not to sing or dance,” Illya replied, his tone cold.

Mengele laughed uproariously and slapped Illya on the shoulder once again. “You, my friend, are a piece of work,” he announced, “but perhaps you’re right. We’d get precious little pleasure out of anything so ugly. That’s the trouble with these peasants – ignorant, ugly and talentless. A waste of air and space.”

Illya sipped his beer impassively.

“Genetics,” Mengele declared loudly, “that’s where the future of mankind lies. Eugenics was never going to be the answer, any fool can see that nature’s genetic selection programme is far too random. Gene therapy – now that’s where we should be concentrating our efforts.”

“I have heard of this,” Illya said, nodding, “I have read several papers on the subject and I know a little about the theory. Since Watson and Crick discovered the structure of DNA, there has been much excitement in the scientific world about the prospect of ascertaining what each and every gene does in the human body. Such a project would be massive, of course, and would require much knowledge and many skills that have yet to be developed, but once it is complete the ramifications of being able to replace faulty genes with healthy ones in a living person would be absolutely earth-shattering. Inherited genetic disorders would be a thing of the past; sufferers could actually have a cure for the incurable.”

“Well, yes,” Mengele waved his hands, “that would be a good _start,_ yes. But _improving_ the DNA of people exceptional in areas of intelligence or physical prowess – well, the results could give us a boost into the future. Look, Stepan Ivanovitch,” Mengele gestured with the bottle, “imagine creaming off the top ten per cent in intelligence of the world’s population and giving them gene therapy to raise their intellectual ceiling. Developments in science and medicine would rocket ahead. Take those who are physically superior in strength, senses, co-ordination, etc etc, enhance their good qualities and suddenly the development of the human race takes a big leap forward. The race evolves, but more quickly – and on our terms rather than Mother Nature’s.”

“And the others?” Illya asked softly.

“Eh?” Mengele frowned.

“The eighty per-cent who aren’t part of your plan. The ones who don’t make it past the post – the rejects – what of them?” 

Illya’s eyes were bright and sharp; his fingers curled gently around the beer mug.

Mengele shrugged. “Who knows?” he answered expansively, “Who cares? Make life tough enough for them and over several generations, they’ll gradually die out. The superior variant will always take precedence.”

“Interestingly, several eminent experts in the field have concluded exactly the opposite,” Illya replied blandly, “Current thinking considers a high birth rate to be a response to privation rather than a cause of it. These castoffs, these discards from your system of human development are quite likely to out-breed your enhanced humans, Herr Doktor.”

“Ah!” Mengele tapped his index finger to the side of his nose, “That’s where you’re wrong, Stepan Ivanovitch; that’s where you’re wrong!” He laughed uproariously and tried to slap Illya on the shoulder again but missed.

“These so-called scientists,” Mengele continued, “no idea – none at all. Not their fault, of course. Too many governments interfering. They actually have _rules_ now in research – call them ethics.” He shook his head in disgust. “Governments should do what they’re paid to do – rule over the masses and leave us scientists to get on with what we do best. I mean, it’s not as if anyone would miss what we use. It’s, ah… surplus to requirements, yes that’s the phrase.”

“I’m sorry, Herr Doktor,” Illya said stiffly, “but I don’t think I understand.”

Mengele fixed Illya with a disconcertingly sharp glance for someone so well along the path to inebriation. “Oh, I think you do, my young friend,” he said, quietly, “You just don’t want to admit that what I’m saying makes sense. Look, let’s face facts. Rats and mice are all very well as a starting point, their physiology comes quite close to our own. But close, as the Americans have it, is no cigar. Look at the complete shambles over that anti-emetic drug for Morning Sickness – utter idiocy, and all because it couldn’t be properly tested.”

“I assume you’re referring to the prescribing of Thalidomide to pregnant women,” Illya said slowly, “Throughout the world more than ten thousand babies were born with serious birth defects. Less than fifty per cent of them survived. I think that qualifies more as a tragedy than a misfortune, Herr Doktor.”

Mengele shrugged. “Whatever,” he said negligently, “At any rate, it wouldn’t have happened if we’d been allowed adequate human testing. I tried to tell them – it would have been easy to set it up, there were always women prepared to go along with it if you paid them,” Mengele chuckled, “And what you ended up with at the end of the process could have been used too. Very efficient.”

Illya filed that away for further consideration. He nodded carefully. “And you were part of the research into Thalidomide?” he asked politely, “When you were at Chemie Grünenthal?”

“Of course I was!” Mengele slapped the palm of his hand on the table, “I was one of their chief research scientists. My experience was absolutely vital to their drug development!”

“Your experience,” Illya repeated quietly.

Mengele attempted to pour another shot of _chacha_ but found the bottle empty. He dropped it on the floor, still chuckling faintly, humming and shaking his head as though contemplating some vast internal joke. 

“Your experience, Herr Doktor,” Illya tried to lock eyes with his companion, “I am curious as to what Chemie Grünenthal were getting when they employed you. What was your experience in this area of research?”

“Ah no,” Mengele waved a drunken finger in Illya’s face, “You won’t get what you want out of me that way. My research is my own, not Grünenthal’s, not the KGB’s; mine alone. If UNCLE wants what I have to offer, UNCLE had better be prepared to pay for it. There are things I want from your organisation in return for my work.”

“Things?” Illya queried.

Mengele nodded vigorously. “An easy life for one,” he replied, “I’m tired of putting all my expertise, ideas and experience into a project just to have the credit, and the profit, given to someone else. I’m fed up with living on a pittance. I’m not getting any younger, my friend, and I’m looking for a comfortable retirement.”

Mengele leaned across the table, supporting his weight on his elbows. He pointed with both index fingers. 

“I also want protection,” he said, slurring the word. “Yes, protection. There are lots of people interested in my work, lots of different countries and organisations. And some of them would think nothing of killing me to get it.” 

He blinked dazedly at Illya and smiled, observing his own hand poised inches from the young man’s face. He curled his fingers gently around Illya’s cheek.

“Maybe there are other things I want right now, _Styopa,_ ” he murmured huskily, stroking along the chiselled jaw line, the lightest of caresses. “How badly does your organisation want what I have to offer, my young friend? And how far would you be prepared to go to get it, _kotyenok?_ ”

The fumes could have powered Sputnik 1. Illya did not move, his face was unreadable.

“Pretty,” Mengele slid damp fingers into Illya’s hair, “Tell me, my pretty friend, does UNCLE use you for this kind of work? Do you know how to please a man, Stepan – if that really is your name – or are your skills only for the fairer sex?” 

Illya turned his head away and his mouth firmed into a line. Someone who had only a passing acquaintance with the Russian might take this as a sign of submission. Illya winced as Mengele tightened his grip, pulling painfully on his hair.

“ _Kotyenok,_ ” Mengele repeated in a whisper close to Illya’s ear, “Kitten. Or are you _tigryenok_? How interesting it would be to find out!”

Illya made no reply but slowly raised a hand and wrapped it around Mengele’s wrist, gently at first, locating the pressure points, and then increasing his hold until Mengele’s fingers opened reflexively, releasing his grip on Illya’s hair. Face impassive, Illya continued to tighten his grip until he was squeezing strongly enough to grind the bones. Mengele’s face creased in pain and he tried uselessly to pull away. A whimper escaped him as Illya tightened his grasp until Mengele was forced to raise his eyes.

“I think you need to go to bed now, Herr Doktor,” Illya said quietly, keeping his gaze steady. Slowly, he relaxed his grip, allowing the other man to withdraw his crushed hand.

Mengele’s eyes were closed. He chuckled weakly and massaged his wrist. “Alone, I'm guessing,” He murmured, “ _Tigryenok_ indeed! You've got a grip on you, my friend, that’s for sure.”

Mengele’s empty shot glass clattered unevenly on the surface of the rough wooden table. The man sighed deeply, his chin sinking gradually, unevenly into his chest. Illya considered catching him before he slid to the floor but on reflection decided that Mengele deserved the bruises. In the event, the good Doktor settled sprawled in the hard wooden chair, head down and snoring loudly.

Illya sat silently for a few moments longer, regarding the comatose figure of the man for whose protection over the next few days he was expected to risk his life. He looked back into the dregs of his beer and pushed it away. Abruptly he stood, shrugged on his parka and left the room without a backward glance. 

The bar was almost empty, the hour being late by village standards. The only people left were a couple of elderly die-hards nursing their last beers by the fire. Mikhail looked surprisingly alert as he wiped down the tables and put the chairs to rights.

Illya jerked his head in the direction of the back room. “He’s passed out,” he told Mikhail, “My guess is you’re being paid to deal with that.”

Mikhail stowed the rag under the bar. “I’m paid to do a lot of things round these parts,” he said cryptically, taking off in the direction Illya indicated.

“I’ll be here at eight sharp tomorrow morning,” Illya called after him, “The Herr Doktor said he wanted an early start, but I think he probably meant in daylight. Any earlier and I’m guessing we won’t have sufficient visibility.”

“He’ll have a head on him,” Mihail warned over his shoulder, “The hooch packs a punch.”

“I’m aware,” Illya replied wryly, hand on the door latch, “Just make sure he’s awake and packed to go – I’ll handle the rest.” 

He opened the door to a blast of freezing air and stepped out into the drifting snow.

This was shaping up to be one of the worst missions he had taken on in a long time, Illya reflected as he shook off a shower of white crystals onto the dingy floor and slowly climbed the creaking stairs towards his icy roof top room. There was, of course, no sign of his host.

Once ensconced, Illya searched in his pocket until he came up with his communicator pen. Uncapping it, he spoke into the microphone, watching his breath make clouds in the frigid air.

“Open channel D, overseas relay to Napoleon Solo, please,” he said politely. 

“Solo here,” came his partner’s voice after a pause, “How’s the weather where you are?”

“Cold,” Illya replied, “and I’m in a dive with no heating.”

“Luck of the draw,” Illya could hear Solo’s smile all the way from the US.

“I wonder if you could do me a favour,” Illya continued.

“If you want me to take your place on a date with Martha in R&D, I’d be delighted,” Solo quipped, “Just tell me the time and place.”

Illya smiled and shook his head. “Nothing like that,” he replied, “Just some background information. Do you have anything on Mengele’s time at Buchenwald? I know his wife died, but he survived until Liberation. Did he have any contact with his brother during that time?”

“I don’t know, Illya,” Solo’s voice sounded cautious, “I don't remember anything relevant in his file. I’ll get Research on to it if you like; see what they can dig up. Funny you should mention it…”

Suddenly, the past thirty-six hours seemed to catch up with Illya all at once and his body sagged with weariness. He shook his head, hardly hearing Solo’s ensuing words. “It's nothing directly related,” he interrupted, forcing his gritty eyelids open, “just something that came up in conversation. Forget it – it’s probably nothing.”

Illya felt sticky, grimy and somehow unclean deep down. A shower would have been heavenly, but even the narrow, ill-equipped bed was starting to look like nirvana. Unable to suppress a yawn, he sighed and heard his partner chuckle in response.

“Am I keeping you up?” Solo’s tone was amused. “Sounds like it's time for all good UNCLE agents to be tucked up in bed.”

“Really,” Illya spared a sour glance for his meagre accommodation, “and do you include yourself in that statement, Napoleon? I would ask if you have just got in, but on reflection I think it more appropriate to assume that you just got home.”

Solo’s snicker told Illya everything he needed to know; he felt his mouth curving in a reluctant, wry smile.

“Ah, a gentleman never kisses and tells,” Solo chided, mildly, “Have I failed so badly in my tutelage, _tovarisch_?”

“Not at all,” Illya replied, “by your chipper tone, I’m assuming she was eminently satisfactory. Kuryakin out.”

Illya capped his communicator and turned to look at his narrow, ill-equipped bed. He sighed.

“Enjoy your decadent, capitalist central heating, Napoleon,” he muttered, spreading the contents of his rucksack over the thin bedding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I must give some credit here to David McCallum's film "The Ravine" co-starring Nicoletta Machiavelli. Any more detail will give the game away entirely.


	3. Being Solo

Despite the irony of his name, Napoleon actually disliked lone missions. His partnership with Kuryakin was sufficiently long-standing for the duo to have developed a sixth sense when it came to reading each other in the field. Nevertheless, it had taken work to reach that level. 

Waverly’s intolerance towards what he called the “maverick non-conformist element” amongst unpartnered agents in UNCLE was renowned and, despite his admirable success rate as a loner, Napoleon had always known that his days as the master of his own destiny were numbered. The irascible Russian _wunderkind_ would not have been Napoleon’s first choice as a partner but after two months and five successful missions, he was forced to admit the Old Man had been absolutely correct in putting them together. Nowadays, the only thing Napoleon hated more than going out alone was watching his partner do it instead.

“Co-dependence,” Napoleon muttered to himself as he took the top floor elevator in response to a Summons from his Chief. He shook his head with a wry smile.

“Ah, Mr Solo,” Waverly’s beady eyes fixed on his CEA from under bushy brows, “You will be pleased to hear that Mr Kuryakin has checked in.”

Napoleon nodded and smiled. Circumspectly, he refrained from mentioning Illya's early morning call, although come to think of it, the content of his message was such that Napoleon wondered…

“His flight was late,” Waverly continued, disrupting his CEA’s train of thought, “And his transportation to the rendez-vous delayed, both due to heavy snow but he has made contact with the mark and they are preparing to move out at first light.”

“On skis, sir?” Napoleon queried, eyebrows raised.

Waverly made a gravelly sound in his chest, his version of a chuckle. “No, Mr Solo,” he replied, “Fortune appears to be smiling on our Mr Kuryakin. The local tavern proprietor has lent him a specialist vehicle. With this piece of luck, he should make good time.”

“A specialist vehicle, sir?” Napoleon ventured, “In a small mountain village in the middle of nowhere?”

“Unlikely as it may seem, that appears to be the case,” Waverly chewed on his pipe stem; subject closed. “Now Mr Solo, I assume you have successfully made contact with UNCLE Istanbul?”

“I have made several attempts to speak with Mr Osman,” Napoleon replied, “all without success, I’m afraid. His assistant, a Miss Daniella Caplan, has been extremely helpful and efficient – a delightful and charming young woman.” He smiled in remembrance.

“Yes,” Waverly’s mouth twitched, “and a weapons expert along with a Black Belt in karate too, amongst other plaudits. She is a formidable agent, Mr Solo; they’re lucky to have her.” 

“As you say, sir,” Napoleon murmured, raising a speculative eyebrow. 

_“Mr Solo?”_

_“Speaking.”_

_“Hi, Daniella Caplan here, Enforcement Agent with UNCLE Istanbul. I just read your telex.”_

_The voice was a resonant alto with an accent that was pure California. Napoleon raised his eyebrows._

_“Yes. Well, thank you for calling, Miss Caplan, but I was hoping to speak to your Number One, Section One; a Mr Adem Osman.”_

_“Yeah, so I gathered. His secretary told me you’ve called several times. I’m afraid Mr Osman has been up to his neck in the Black Sea crisis – he hasn’t been in the office for three weeks and he’s currently in Ukraine.”_

_“Ah yes, we’ve been following this one closely here in New York. Our feathered friends have surpassed themselves trying to instigate all-out war between the Soviets and Turkey by impersonating Russian naval vessels in the Bosphorus.”_

_“Too right, Mr Solo. We’ve been working our butts off trying to keep a lid on it. Now, what can I do for you?”_

_“Well, I don’t mean to be rude, Miss Caplan, but I really need to speak urgently to your boss.”_

_“Sorry, it’s me or no one, Mr Solo. No matter how urgent your needs, I can’t connect you with someone who ain’t here. Mr Osman’s incommunicado for at least another two days.”_

The UNCLE file on Miss Caplan that Napoleon pulled after winding up their telephone conversation had been informative. So had the photographs.

Napoleon cleared his throat. “I was under the impression that MOSSAD were not entirely, ah, enthusiastic about lending their agents to UNCLE, sir,” he began carefully.

_“I’ve been here a while, Mr Solo, long enough to know how things work in this neck of the woods. Mr Osman’s a good man but he has his own agenda. He’s Turkish, so the threat of Soviet aggression in the Black Sea is more important to him than a lone scientist profiteering off wartime research.”_

_“As I understand it, Miss Caplan, there’s a little more at stake here than just research. And I was led to believe that Doktor Mengele began his research after the war when he was at_ Chemie Grünenthal. _”_

_“Yeah, that’s what I was told too. Just a thought: do you know anything about his internment years? I think that might bear some follow-up, don’t you?”_

Waverly shuffled a sheaf of papers into alignment and slid them into a brown envelope. “Usually they aren’t,” he agreed, “but I think the Istanbul placement is of great interest to them at the moment. Miss Caplan has held her position for three years now.” He gave Napoleon a sharp glance. “She hails from the West Coast,” he added, “specifically Long Beach, California.”

Napoleon nodded. “First generation?” he queried.

“Indeed,” Waverly replied, “She has a large family living in the suburbs of Tel Aviv.” He fixed Napoleon with a gimlet-eyed stare.

“Was there anything further, Mr Solo?” he asked, “because if not I suggest you get on with it. There’s no time like that present, you know, and they say the Devil makes work for idle hands.”

Napoleon paused for a moment about to speak then seemed to think better of it. “Very good, sir,” he replied gravely, moving towards the door.

“Excellent; keep me informed,” Waverly turned back to his paperwork, effectively dismissing his CEA. 

Out in the corridor once again, Napoleon gave serious consideration to walking straight back in again and demanding to know what was going on. His inner antennae were twitching insistently, triggering an irritating buzz in the back of his mind that would not be quieted. 

“Something is rotten – and it’s not in Denmark,” he murmured, stabbing at the button for the lift, “And if I’m not very much mistaken, tovarisch, you’re out there in the middle of it without backup.” 

He stepped into the lift and paused, his fingers hovering over the display. Abruptly, he sighed and punched B.

The Basement at UNCLE New York is not a popular location, nor is it a well-known one. For most UNCLE personnel, the sub-level below the ground floor and above the underground docking area is where the R&D Laboratories are housed. However, UNCLE New York is a large complex and there is only so much space that Laboratories can occupy. After the extension and major refurbishment of the buildings in 1962, the unused basement rooms languished either empty or providing unofficial storage areas for equipment and supplies not currently in use by field agents. Nature abhors a vacuum and so apparently do librarians; Research gradually moved more and more of their dead files into the space, eventually commandeering the entire area as the main Archive. 

This department was manned periodically by a lone curator known to everyone as Sam. Sam was elderly, moved slowly and had one of the sharpest minds Napoleon had ever encountered. As yet, Sam showed no signs of retiring but Napoleon had to wonder how UNCLE New York would manage without him when he finally did.

Sam responded to Napoleon’s greeting with a grunt, his usual response to any form of salutation, and fixed Napoleon with a beady eye.

“It’s not often I get to see you down here, young nipper,” he remarked. 

Napoleon gave a weak smile. Sam remembered Napoleon as a raw, green recruit – and he had been elderly then.

“No, that’s true,” Napoleon remarked easily, “How have you been, Sam?”

“Could be better,” the old man replied, “could be worse. Same as yourself, I reckon. What can I do for you, Napoleon?”

Napoleon frowned and scratched his head. “To tell the truth,” he began, “I don’t honestly know. There’s something, well, eating at me, something not quite right…”

Sam nodded. “It’s this Mengele thing your partner’s involved in, isn’t it?” he replied, “And you’ve got an itch.”

Napoleon thought that he shouldn’t really be surprised. Sam had information sources everywhere, he knew everything that was going on at UNCLE HQ. If THRUSH really wanted to paralyse UNCLE’s operations, all they had to do was feed Sam a truth drug. However, he’d probably feed them their own teeth first – with his walking stick.

“Illya was unhappy about taking the assignment,” Napoleon began, “and he mentioned something about Buchenwald during our last contact, then told me to forget about it. I would have done so, except my contact in UNCLE Istanbul also mentioned Buchenwald during our last telephone conversation and it set a few bells ringing. Trouble is, I don’t know where to start.”

“Beginning’s usually a good place,” Sam rumbled, fishing out a spiral bound notepad and a ballpoint, “Fire away, Napoleon – I’ve got all day.”

 

Illya arrived at Mikhail’s after briefly checking in with Headquarters in good time for a prompt start as soon as the light was good enough. He found Mengele crouched unmoving over an untouched cup of black coffee. He was wearing aviator shades and responded to Illya’s polite greeting with a wordless groan. Illya regarded him stony-faced.

“I was going to suggest we take shifts, but under the circumstances, I think I had better drive,” he said, tight-lipped, “With respect, Herr Doktor, I think you are still probably so drunk you would be arrested, even on the streets of Moscow.”

Mengele grunted. “This isn’t Moscow, my friend,” he rasped, his voice like gravel, “so who cares?”

“I care,” Illya shouldered both his and Mengele’s packs, “I would rather ski down a ravine than crash into one. Come, Herr Doktor, let us make a start. We have a long way to go and I would rather use the daylight while it is here. You can sleep in the car.” 

Illya put a hand under Mengele’s elbow which the other man shook off with an annoyed hiss. Mikhail came out from behind the bar. He chuckled, shook his head and took a firm grip on Mengele’s other arm.

“Up you get,” he told the man, pulling hard, “You’re a bad advertisement for my tavern, Herr Doktor. I would not wish any of my regulars to see you this morning.”

Reluctantly, Mengele rose to his feet. Suddenly he stiffened, looking about him wildly. “My bag,” he rasped, “where is it?”

Illya turned. “I have your pack, Herr Doktor,” he replied.

Mengele shook his head, wincing. “No,” he insisted, “the small one – where is it?”

“Is this what you are looking for?” Mikhail indicated a waist pack slung over the back of Mengele’s chair. Mengele scowled at Mikhail, grabbed the pack and fastened it round his middle, pulling his parka over it. 

Mikhail shrugged and turned to Illya. “Your skis are in the Cat and the keys are in the ignition as I’m sure you’re aware,” he said with a wry grin, “And if you take my advice, you won’t stop to see the sights.” His face became serious. “It’s bright and clear at present, but there’s a change brewing,” he said, “I wouldn’t be surprised to see blizzards, maybe storms. Take care of yourself.” He nodded in farewell and left the room.

Illya shook his head. This mission just kept getting better and better.

The Sno-Cat ran like clockwork from the off. It was the first piece of genuine good luck Illya had encountered on this mission, and even this filled him with misgiving, despite the fact that he had gone through the vehicle with a fine toothed comb only hours before.

The going was slow, as Illya was of necessity taking a route well away from the main roads, and this took him into uncharted terrain. To his everlasting relief, Mengele had done little so far but doze fitfully in the passenger seat. Illya hoped this state of affairs would continue but he had the foresight to equip himself with a couple of strong paper bags from Sofiya’s kitchen against the possibility that Mengele’s hangover would take a different course.

The morning was sunny and crisp with a clear blue sky flecked with fluffy white clouds; a picture postcard morning and Illya took a little time to admire the sheer beauty of the untouched slopes and the distant mountains. So far Mikhail’s prediction about the weather did not seem to have come true. Illya frowned at the bright sky and wondered which would be worse; bad weather or the obvious trail they were leaving. At least snowfall would help with the latter. 

Another hour onwards and Illya was beginning to regret his fleeting thoughts about cover. It was always a wonder, he thought, how quickly the weather conditions could change at this altitude. Far from clear blue skies, banks of grey clouds loomed and the bright daylight dimmed and waned. Next to him in the passenger seat Mengele stirred and groaned. Illya picked up a water bottle.

“Here,” he said, nudging the other man with the cap end, “drink – it’ll help with the nausea and the headache. And there’s aspirin in the glove box.”

Mengele fumbled for the water, eyes still closed, then let the bottle sink to his lap with a sigh. Presently, he rummaged until he uncovered the aspirin bottle and swallowed two.

“Oh, my head!” he murmured, “Never again. That stuff is lethal.”

“I warned you,” Illya responded, “Don’t trust the local hooch.”

Mengele shook his head then groaned again. “I should have listened,” he replied, “Was it a good night, Stepan? I can’t remember.”

Convenient, Illya thought, and probably untrue. Drink-induced amnesia was an expedient fiction in his opinion; he had occasion to use it himself once or twice.

The going became steeper and more effortful as they climbed slowly to the edge of a ravine. Illya decreased the speed but the cab still swayed alarmingly on its suspension. Mengele gave a strangled exclamation and clutched the dashboard. Illya snapped a glance at his companion, noted his pallor and thrust one of the paper sacks at him.

“If you are going to be ill, Herr Mengele, please aim carefully,” he said, eyes on the trail before him, “otherwise you will be cleaning up, I promise you that.”

Mengele batted the bag away from his face. “Stop!” he said, urgently. 

Illya frowned. “We have no time for this,” he replied tersely, “the bad weather…”

Mengele ignored him and groped for the lock, throwing the cab door open. Illya just managed to brake in time before the other man threw himself out of the door. Illya watched as Mengele rose to his feet and staggered through the snow to the edge of the ravine where he bent double, retching uncontrollably.

Illya sighed. He put on the hand brake but left the engine running and leaped down lightly from the cab.

“You idiot!” Illya strode across to the other man, “That was foolhardy and completely unnecessary!”

Mengele was coughing and spitting into the snow. “The bag smells of _vatrushka._ If I had puked in that, I would never have retrieved my insides.” He straightened up and gave Illya a watery grin.

At that point, several things happened in quick succession. A flash of reflected light in his peripheral vision galvanised Illya into a reflexive forward dive, propelling both himself and Mengele face down into the snow.

“What the…?” Mengele spluttered, pushing at Illya.

“Keep still!” Illya hissed, “I think… Yes, I think there’s something…” He paused, listening.

“Get off me, you oaf!” Mengele was abruptly furious. Had Illya’s attention not been firmly on what he could hear, he would perhaps have managed to resist Mengele’s bid for freedom. As it was, the older, heavier man heaved himself out from underneath and stood up, right on the edge of the ravine.

“NO!” Illya held up a hand in horror, “Mengele, for God’s sake get down!”

A single report echoed through the clear air. Mengele spun violently as he was hit high in the chest then almost as if in slow motion, he crumpled in on himself, folding up like a deckchair and arcing over the precipice. Illya crawled frantically to the edge of the ravine and peered down. Mengele rolled bonelessly over and over until he disappeared out of sight well down into the ravine.

Illya ducked as three more shots rang out, embedding themselves in the cab behind him. The engine immediately died. Illya hunkered back into the snow, gloved hands over his head, deciding to wait it out. He wriggled around in the snow until he could work his communicator free from an inside pocket and uncapped it.

“Open Channel D, please,” he said, switching to receive. The small speaker hissed static. 

“Channel D, please,” Illya tried again with the same result. Muttering a choice Ukrainian oath, he stowed the communicator back in his pocket. _It’s probably the altitude, but it could also be bad weather. I remember what Mikhail said before we left…_

More than five minutes of silence crawled by before Illya cautiously raised his head. Nothing. Taking the risk, he grabbed for his binoculars and scanned the immediate area, looking for signs of movement, of life or action on the slopes, among the trees, on the other side of the ravine… wait. Illya swung the binoculars around, tracking a tiny figure skiing quickly and expertly down the steep slope of the ravine towards the bottom.

“Oh no you don’t!” he muttered, pocketing the binoculars and pushing himself to his feet. Hurrying over to the Sno Cat he pulled at the door handle and threw himself into the driving seat. He grabbed for the ignition, turning the key. Nothing. Leaving the door open, Illya jumped down from the cab and went around to the front of the vehicle.

 _“Chyort voz’mi!”_ Illya slapped his hand down hard on the bonnet in frustration. He released the catch and swung the hood clear, but he was fairly sure that he would not like what he saw. One glance at the smoking, leaking mess inside was enough. Thinking furiously, Illya closed the hood. _Hollow point bullets – this sniper really meant business. Mengele didn’t stand a chance._

He leaned on the useless Sno Cat for a few moments then pushed himself upright and back into the cab, burrowing around on the back seat.

Whoever had shot Mengele had also disabled their transport, Illya reasoned as he worked. That screamed training and marksmanship. There was little doubt that Mengele was dead, either killed outright or bleeding out as he fell, the skill of the sniper and the deadliness of the ammunition made it a given. Nevertheless, Illya was obligated to confirm this and, judging by the trajectory of the other skier, he was clearly not the only one with this plan.

Illya wrenched his skis and poles out of the Sno Cat together with goggles and gloves. He rifled through Mengele’s pack, finding nothing particularly interesting. Nevertheless, he stopped to transfer some of the more useful items to his own pack against the possibility of a standoff. He also drew his UNCLE Special and swiftly attached the scope, barrel extension and stock that converted it into a highly useful machine carbine. Slinging the weapon carefully over one shoulder by a leather strap, Illya fastened his skis, positioned himself at the very top of the ravine and took a deep breath before plunging headlong down the slope.

The snow was crisp and undisturbed but this was no professional piste with a beautifully maintained and manicured surface; this snow was rough and uneven with branches, tree stumps and other debris lurking under the surface. It took all of Illya’s skill and experience to weave himself a path towards where he remembered Mengele to have fallen. It seemed longer now he was actually covering the distance rather than viewing from afar, but Illya was certain he was on the right trail; the homing device he had placed under Mengele’s collar earlier that day was broadcasting clearly to the receiver on his watch.

Mengele had fallen a long way and the momentum of his fall had rolled him considerably further. He had finally fetched up under a group of pine trees about half way down the ravine and as soon as Illya caught sight of him, he knew his assumption had been correct. Mengele lay in a still, crumpled heap, his head wrenched at an ugly angle. Turning the body was surprisingly difficult as the snow was soft and Mengele had been a big man, and it was with a grunt of relief that Illya finally managed to shift him onto his back. The tatters of his parka did nothing to hide the gaping hole through his shoulder where the sniper round had almost vaporised half of his chest. Illya drew a quick breath through his teeth and squatted down for a better look.

“Straight into the torso,” he muttered, “An unbelievably good shot at such a distance.” He looked along the line of the ravine to where there were distinct tracks in the snow. The sniper had clearly managed to reach the body before Illya. But why? Illya turned his attention back to Mengele, eyes cataloguing every detail, pausing at the belt of the man’s trousers. _His waistpack is missing._ Illya searched carefully around the grisly scene but found no trace of the fabric belt he had seen on Mengele only a few hours ago.

Illya stood, hand poised carefully over the stock of his carbine, and considered. Mengele had been killed by a sniper who had appeared out of nowhere. Correction – the sniper knew exactly where to find them and the ambush had been planned. Illya's gritted his teeth. _Mikhail, curse him, playing both ends to the middle._ The sniper had deliberately taken out the vehicle too, possibly to ensure that Illya also perished. Correction – the vehicle was immobilised to ensure that any pursuit would inevitably be on foot. So the sniper had no motorised transport and needed to level the playing field. Illya snorted softly to himself; at least it wasn't personal. Mengele’s waistpack clearly contained something critical; the man had been paranoid about its whereabouts and now it was missing. Conclusion – Mengele’s death was also a secondary concern. The sniper’s mission was to obtain the waistpack.

Illya tried his communicator once more but was not terribly surprised when, as last time, all he could hear was static.

It didn’t take too much imagination to work out what it was that Mengele was keeping so close to his chest – before an expanding round blew it to smithereens. Illya reflected that his enemy had been very fortunate not to have destroyed his prize along with his target. Fortunate, skilful or both. Hollow point, or expanding, ammunition had been outlawed in international warfare by The Hague Convention of 1899 as being excessive and inhumane. Nevertheless, consistency of manufacture and exceptional accuracy at long ranges made them excellent rounds for target shooting. As he checked his skis and prepared to follow the trail, Illya reflected on the cold-bloodedness of an adversary who would use such a weapon on a living target.

The trail ran along the side of the ravine. Illya was making good speed but he did not seem to be gaining at all on his quarry. He tried to work out where the trail was leading but although his sense of direction was still functioning, his knowledge of the region was too scant to lend him any inspiration. Spotting something, Illya turned swiftly, coming to an abrupt standstill with a shower of fresh snow. He poked the ground with one of his poles to reveal Mengele’s waistpack, abandoned. Empty, of course. Back to the trail.

The tracks started to dip down into the ravine. The terrain was wooded here with few clear pathways between the trees, and the going was much slower as a result. Illya’s face became pitted with small cuts and bruises from the flailing branches. He paused briefly, adjusting his scarf to afford him a little more protection. 

Still the trail meandered, always leading downwards. Trying to keep his speed, Illya noticed only peripherally the gradually swelling sounds of running water and the smells of mud and vegetation. He stumbled upon the river so suddenly he almost took a header into the foam.

 _Well, here’s an interesting development._ Illya scratched his stubbled chin. Should he cross or not? Had his adversary crossed here? If so, had he allowed the water to wash him further downstream or had he managed to clamber out only a matter of yards later? Illya examined the ground and concluded that his quarry had indeed gone into the water at this point, but it was less clear where he had managed to climb out.

Illya fished out his trusty binoculars once again and skirted the bank warily, tracking inexorably downstream, dividing his attention between the near bank and his own wellbeing and the far bank for clues as to his quarry’s whereabouts. He had been trekking for about half a mile when he suddenly spotted something on the opposite bank. Tracks! Illya’s lips curved. “Got you!” he muttered.

Illya cast about for somewhere to sit. A fallen tree trunk provided a good enough perch for what he had in mind. He shrugged off his pack and rummaged in it until he produced what looked like a folded sheet of rubberised plastic. He unclipped his skis then unfolded his bundle which transformed itself into a pair of lightweight breast waders. Illya clambered into them, hefted his pack once again and slung his skis over his shoulders.

“Here goes nothing,” he muttered and set off into the icy water.

Fortunately, it was too early in the season for the river to be running at full strength. In fact, in some colder years, the water would still be frozen at this time. However, despite all of this, the current was still strong enough to give the heavily-laden and slightly-built Illya some difficulty. In fact, the weight of his pack and skis was in some ways an advantage in that gravity helped him to keep his footing on the rocky surface, but it was with some considerable effort and the sacrifice of one of his poles that Illya finally managed to drag himself out of the water on the far bank.

As he lay gasping like a stranded fish, he reflected that this would have been the perfect ambush. All his adversary had to do was wait amongst the trees then shoot him whilst he was helpless. Illya did not really believe the man would do such a thing. All his actions so far spoke of flight, of swift retreat towards some kind of extraction. Illya knew that airlift in these parts was almost impossible; so also was any kind of mountain rescue this far into the wilderness of Russia. The only chance his quarry had of escaping was to make for the coast.


	4. Developments

Napoleon found himself, once again, in the corridor outside Mr Waverly’s office. This time, however, he brushed past Lisa Rogers, ignoring her increasingly shrill protests, and strode without pause into his Chief’s office, slapping a thin sheaf of papers in front of Mr Waverly’s surprised face.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Lisa said, hot on Napoleon’s heels and glaring daggers at him, “He didn’t even stop to ask if you were engaged!”

“Yes, that’s perfectly true, sir,” Napoleon agreed tightly; his eyes were hard, “I didn’t.”

Waverly took in the tense posture of his CEA and the alarmed face of his secretary and nodded. He capped his fountain pen with care and placed it on his blotter.

“Miss Rogers, could you arrange for some tea, please?” Waverly requested, with remarkable aplomb. Lisa stared uncertainly at the standoff, glancing nervously between Waverly and his CEA. 

“Miss Rogers?” Waverly repeated quietly, his eyes not moving from Napoleon’s. Lisa nodded stiffly, gave Napoleon one more furious glare and turned to leave.

Waverly carefully collated the documents he had been working on and slid them into a file which he then locked in his desk. He gathered Napoleon’s bundle of papers, glanced at the top sheet and gave a faint sigh.

“Yes, Mr Solo,” he said quietly, “I can see very clearly why you might be, ahm, a little perturbed, shall we say, at the information you have uncovered.”

“Would you care to explain, sir?” Napoleon’s voice was dangerously soft.

Waverly nodded. “Sit down, Mr Solo,” he replied curtly, “This could take some time.”

Sam’s reputation as one of UNCLE’s top researchers was well earned. Napoleon’s intel had been sparse, little more than supposition really, but Sam had listened, scribbled a few notes, sat in thought for a few minutes then lifted the telephone. A few hours later, the first chickens had come home to roost with a vengeance. _And what interesting birds they turned out to be,_ Napoleon thought, angrily.

Waverly read through Sam’s notes and Napoleon’s annotations with the single-minded concentration for which he was legendary. Napoleon sat and drank his tea feeling like a schoolboy summoned to the Headmaster’s office. He tried not to fidget.

Presently, Waverly stopped reading, leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers.

“Sam and I arrived at UNCLE New York in the same year, you know,” he said, pensively. “A fine researcher, wasted in academia. He had tenure at Harvard before he came to UNCLE.”

Waverly seemed to gather his thoughts. “Well, Mr Solo,” he said, shooting the other man a sharp glance under bushy eyebrows, “Where should I begin?”

“At the beginning, sir,” Napoleon replied crisply, “if you wouldn’t mind.”

Waverly leaned forward, elbows on his desk and clasped his hands.

“Mengele is an extremely clever man,” he said, thoughtfully, “Unlike his psychopathic brother, Ernst is a true scientist. His research is methodical and logical using, where possible, clinical trial data rather than simple extrapolation from a single set of results. However, the latest information we have regarding his, ah, war exploits does on the surface look rather damning.”

“Let me put it a different way,” Napoleon’s voice was very soft, “Mengele is a war criminal who just happens to have something that UNCLE wants, so we’re prepared to overlook that part of his recent past and give him amnesty, protection and a life of luxury in order to get our hands on the merchandise. How‘m I doin’ so far?”

“Mr Solo,” Waverly’s expression was extremely disapproving, “Correct me if I am wrong, but your purview in UNCLE New York is Enforcement and Intelligence. As yet, you have no input into policy, nor do you have any knowledge of the conflicting interests surrounding this mission. You are speaking out of turn.”

“My apologies, sir,” Napoleon said insincerely, “I regret the necessity of expressing an opinion that differs from the party line.”

Waverly glared at his CEA then pursed his lips in a moue of distaste.

“Ernst Mengele,” he began, “was indeed interned at Buchenwald. That fact is a matter of public record and cannot be falsified. We also have incontrovertible evidence that his half-brother Josef made several visits to Buchenwald at different times during World War 2. We have no proof that the two ever met, nor that Josef at any time admitted the relationship. Recently, however, we have received anecdotal evidence which seems to indicate that there was some limited contact between the two brothers. We also have Ernst’s own admission that although he was still held prisoner, he was, shall we say, more gently treated by the Nazi regime simply on account of his surname. He claims this fact alone enabled him to keep his head below the parapet until Buchenwald was liberated by the US Infantry in 1945.”

“So you’re telling me he was either a collaborator, just lucky or a mixture of the two, is that it?” Napoleon unclenched his fists with effort. “And what about Ernst’s wife? Very nice and peachy for good ol’ Ernst to be sure, but not exactly the good times for her, huh?”

“I don’t suppose that Doktor Mengele’s life since has been a bed of roses either with that kind of history behind him, do you?” Waverly snapped back. 

“Oh, I don’t know!” Napoleon replied icily, “It beats being tortured to death. As I'm quite sure Berta Mengele would agree were she here instead of in an unmarked grave somewhere near Weimar, wouldn’t you say, sir?”

“Mr Solo!” Waverly slammed his pipe down on the desk, “Your assumptions have no basis in fact and are, quite frankly, slanderous. If you are endeavouring to make Ernst Mengele out to be a war criminal like his brother, I would advise you to tread very carefully indeed. The man has a completely unblemished reputation – a difficult thing to achieve with such distressing wartime experiences behind him – and his unstinting efforts over a lifetime in scientific research have contributed to advances in many different fields, largely in pharmaceuticals. Many of the life-saving drugs created and marketed by Chemie Grünenthal would never have had their existence without Ernst Mengele’s input. The free availability of Penicillin throughout the world is down in part to his work.”

“A true philanthropist, sir,” Napoleon replied mildly enough but his eyes were cold and uncompromising. 

The _impasse_ went on for some moments, then Waverly sighed and seemed to sink into his chair.

“Mr Solo,” he said wearily, “there are some things that even Number One, Section One cannot avoid, however distasteful he may find them.”

Waverly picked up his pipe and reached for his humidor. “The truth is that what we _don’t_ know about Ernst Mengele very much outweighs what we _do_ know,” he said reluctantly, “All of what you say could be true – or none of it; we simply have no proof,” The pale eyes fixed on Napoleon again, “And without proof, we can’t risk losing what could be a world-changing development, least of all to THRUSH.”

There was a short silence, then Napoleon took a breath. “Sir, is Illya aware of the situation?” he asked.

Waverly narrowed his eyes. “Not officially, Mr Solo,” he replied, “but I have my suspicions. It’s possible, maybe even likely, that Mr Kuryakin has received details of this matter through his own, ahm, contacts. As to the veracity of the little he knows, well we can only speculate.”

Napoleon nodded. That explained a great deal. 

 

Illya clambered exhaustedly to his feet and started to peel off the waders. At least he was mostly dry; he doubted whether his adversary could claim as much, and this gave him something of an edge. He fastened his skis with numb fingers and beat his gloved hands against his legs to shake loose the ice that had formed in the fibres. Pausing to allow his breathing to stabilise, Illya looked up at the gathering snow clouds over the mountains; it seemed that Mikhail had been right about the change in the weather. Taking up his one remaining pole, Illya set off again deeper into the ravine, continuing to follow a trail which wound its way inexorably towards the coast.

A mile or so further along the snowy river bank, Illya saw signs that he was gaining on his quarry. Indentations in the snow and heavier, more irregular tracks told him that the sniper was tiring. He had tripped over a hidden tree stump and fallen, no doubt heavily. His uneven gait spoke of a twisted or sprained ankle. Illya gave a grim smile and put on some speed.

It was hard going and gruelling work, and Illya would never have survived his own punishing pace had he not been in top physical condition. While he laboured, his mind jumped ahead, trying to second guess his opponent. Weakening, possibly borderline hypothermic, Illya reckoned he would hole up somewhere and use the rifle to pick off his enemy rather than risk confrontation out in the open. He paused, panting, to fumble for his binoculars and noted that the trail changed direction about five hundred yards hence, turning to climb up the side of the ravine. He felt a prickle of warning run down his spine.

Illya broke from the trail for the first time. Instinctively, he made for cover, moving amongst the pine trees that congregated in clumps along the slope. Slowly, carefully he manoeuvred across the treacherous terrain, climbing ever upwards, stopping frequently to keep a careful watch on his surroundings. Eventually his vigilance paid off. 

There! Crouched behind the shelter of a large tree stump, Illya could just make out the dark colour of his adversary’s rifle; the rest of the man was swathed in snow camouflage, just like Illya, and blended well into his background.

Illya unslung his UNCLE carbine and took experimental aim. This was a cutting edge weapon but it was not designed for long-range sharp shooting. He stared hard at the motionless figure ahead of him and tamped down stirrings of irritation. Mengele had been an assignment and it was not as if Illya had ever had much sympathy with the man. However, Illya had been entrusted with the doctor’s safety, and he had signally failed to discharge that part of his duty. It rankled. Carefully, he started to edge nearer.

The man was very still, hardly moving even to breathe, and a fanciful part of Illya wondered if the sniper had frozen to death waiting for his target to arrive. Coolly, Illya prepared to take the shot, inching his way forward, edging past trees, carefully and silently advancing on his prey. At length Illya judged the man to be in range. He raised his carbine, finger tightening on the trigger, when some sixth sense, some instinct, caused the man to turn suddenly. Catching sight of Illya, the man immediately brought his rifle to bear on his enemy. Illya gave him no time to sight. He fired three rapid shots, all of which he was certain hit empty air so it was with considerable surprise that he watched his adversary pitch over into the snow and roll unresisting down the slope, gathering momentum as he went. The man lay still and unmoving where he fetched up against a lone pine tree.

Illya tramped quickly through the snow, almost tripping in his haste to descend. His adversary’s body lay still, spread-eagled and apparently lifeless. Nevertheless, Illya approached with caution, carbine first.

The man was certainly either dead or unconscious, Illya decided. He put aside his carbine, slipped of his glove and reached under the hood of the other man’s parka to feel for a pulse. It was there but weak and thready and the skin was deathly cold.

_Hypothermia, I was right._ Illya rolled the man over to get to his pack and quickly searched through the contents, finding nothing of relevance. Going through the man’s pockets also yielded little of consequence. Frustrated, Illya unzipped the man’s parka, searching for an inside breast pocket or security belt, somewhere safe and waterproof, maybe next to the skin, where his adversary would keep documents or anything else valuable…

Slowly, Illya withdrew his hands and sat back on his heels. He reached for the man’s hood and pushed it back from the face. The hair was corn-coloured and long, worn tied back in a ponytail for convenience, the face heart-shaped and finely featured with a generous mouth and a smudge of black eyelashes against a very pale skin. Illya shook his head; his smile was ironic.

A blast of cold air brought him back from his musing. Illya looked up at the threatening sky and realised he was in a quandary. He had only a short time to find some kind of shelter or he would almost certainly perish in what would very likely be a blizzard. He stood up, taking in his surroundings, and reached for his trusty binoculars once again, sweeping his gaze widely over the terrain. It was possible that his adversary knew of some kind of shelter around this area and had been trying to reach it before the storm hit – unless she was equally as foolhardy and suicidal as he was.

The visibility was deteriorating rapidly and Illya almost missed it but, no. There it was; some kind of hut, maybe an old animal shelter, about half a mile along the ravine, just above what he guessed to be the high spring water level. Luck was with him at last. Illya stood, brushing the snow from his knees, rummaged for his adversary's ski poles and prepared to leave. He looked back at the prone figure and frowned, glancing between the woman and the sky, undecided.

Illya Kuryakin was not a sentimental man; anyone who had the smallest acquaintance with him would laugh at the very idea, Napoleon Solo the loudest. So when he looked at the helpless woman who had terminated his mark and had tried her utmost to do the same to him, it was not sentiment that made Illya stow his carbine and his one remaining ski pole in his pack, lay hands on her and manoeuvre her into a sitting position. It was not mawkishness or any kind of sympathy with her situation that made him wrestle her dead weight onto his back, pack and all, and neither was it squeamishness about leaving her to die of exposure. No, this was a purely intellectual decision and it was entirely in line with his mission. She had stolen something very precious to the late Herr Doktor Mengele, something Illya felt he was justified in assuming was critical to the doctor’s research – notes or calculations of some kind perhaps. There was no time to search her properly before the blizzard hit. Illya could leave her to freeze and return to search out the body once the weather settled, but the snow could go on for days and there was no guarantee that he would survive, nor indeed that he would be able to find her again, homing devices notwithstanding.

So Illya told himself as he hoisted her over his shoulder and, bent almost double with effort, began the long, slow half-mile trudge towards the putative shelter. 

 

Napoleon dropped the telephone receiver back into its cradle with unaccustomed gentleness and leaned his chin in his hands. He sighed gustily and frowned. Napoleon did not like mysteries. He had a serious resentment of anything that niggled, interrupted his sleep or impeded his ability to concentrate unless it was female and pretty. The redoubtable Daniella Caplan fell into all those categories but not for the reasons he would have preferred. The smallest, most insignificant comment tossed carelessly into a telephone conversation and Napoleon found himself unable to let it go, like a dog with a slipper. 

_I gotta say it, Mr Solo. UNCLE has had word of far more interesting pharmaceutical prospects and done nothing about them._

_Ours is not to reason why, Miss Caplan._

_I guess not, but it makes me wonder what the big deal is here. I mean sure, it’s a real breakthrough in women’s’ health, but that’s never made Section One sit up and take notice before._

_You sound as though you think there’s more to it. But how could there be?_

_Beats me, Mr Solo. If you got any ideas, I’d be delighted to hear 'em._

Napoleon shook his head; perhaps a coffee would help clear his thoughts. As he levered himself out of his office chair, the desk phone rang once again.

“Solo,” he responded into the receiver.

“It’s Sam,” UNCLE’s Chief Archivist sounded unusually subdued. “Napoleon, I’ve dug up some new intel on that Mengele Affair your partner’s involved with.”

“Oh, yeah?” Napoleon’s ears pricked up immediately.

“Yeah,” Sam’s voice was heavy, “I think you’d better get down here.”

 

An hour later, Napoleon was still trying to absorb the full import when Sam’s own extension rang.

“Yes, Lisa, he’s with me,” Sam said, propping the receiver under one shoulder. He pointed to the sheaf of notes, gesturing for Napoleon to take them. Awkwardly, Napoleon collated the papers together and snapped a paperclip over the corner.

“Yeah, I’ll tell him,” Sam continued into the phone, “Thank you, Lisa.” He replaced the receiver and looked up at Napoleon with sharp eyes.

“Boss man wants you,” he said shortly, “You better hurry.”

 

“You have made contact again with the redoubtable Miss Caplan I gather, Mr Solo?” Waverly paced his office, hands behind his back, unaccountably fidgety.

“Indeed, sir,” Napoleon replied, a frown beginning to gather between his eyebrows, “She has organised transport and crew for an extraction once we get the go ahead from Illya.”

“And therein lies the problem,” Waverly said, fixing his CEA with a sharp glance, “Mr Kuryakin is not responding to his communicator. The last we heard he was setting out for the coast with Doctor Mengele by Sno Cat. Since then, the weather has deteriorated vastly – blizzard conditions apparently – and reception is poor. He has missed two check-ins already.”

“What do you suggest, Sir?” Napoleon asked. 

Waverly paced the room once again. “I suggest we don’t act hastily,” he said at length, “I think we should continue in our efforts to raise Mr Kuryakin but if he misses his next check-in, you should start to think about travel plans to Turkey, Mr Solo. I will alert Miss Rogers to the possibility.”

“Very good, sir,” Napoleon replied, “And, ah, while we are on the subject and in view of our previous conversation concerning Herr Doktor Mengele, would it be out of order at this time to bring up the matter of his research?”

Waverly narrowed his eyes. “What is it that you want to know, Mr Solo?” he said forbiddingly.

Napoleon took a breath. “Well, sir,” he began, “I’ve been doing a little investigation of my own on this invention of Dr Mengele’s; asking a few questions, getting a few answers – you know how it is.”

“Ah,” said Waverly nodding, “I see. Miss Caplan again, no doubt, and with Sam’s assistance.” He pressed a button on the internal phone.

“Miss Rogers, I am going into conference and must not be disturbed until further notice,” he said flatly, “Mr Slate will assist you with anything urgent.”

“Very good, sir.” Lisa’s voice echoed from the intercom then cut out abruptly.

Waverly turned narrowed eyes on his CEA. “This office is now in lockdown,” he said quietly, “Any and all recording devices have been disabled. Fire away, Mr Solo.”

“Well, Sir,” Napoleon began, starting to pace the office in unconscious imitation of his chief, “Most people would agree that when thousands upon thousands of people in the developing world die from famine, drought, war or disease, this is an avoidable tragedy.”

“Yes, I would go along with that, Mr Solo. Continue,” Waverly replied, gesturing with his pipe.

“Doktor Mengele would also agree,” Napoleon continued, frowning, “but he takes the line that the fault is in the people, not in their situation. Their unsustainable birth rate outstrips the provision of resources in their poor countries and so brings the tragedy down on themselves.”

“That is his belief, yes,” Waverly’s demeanour was becoming frosty.

“And to that end,” Napoleon continued, “He has created the ultimate in birth control: a drug which can be taken by mouth, has no side effects and is totally foolproof.”

“Yes, Mr Solo, that is an accurate assessment,” Waverley’s voice was positively arctic. He tapped the bowl of his pipe on the desktop. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t we cover this issue last time we spoke on the matter?”

“Ah, but it’s a little bit more complicated than that, isn’t it, sir?” Napoleon stopped pacing and fixed his chief with a direct look. Waverly met his eyes but did not reply.

“This chemical lodges itself in a woman’s reproductive system and paralyses it,” Napoleon continued, “No pregnancies, no births, unless and until the antidote is administered, isn’t that the case, sir?”

Unwillingly, Waverly nodded.

“So,” Napoleon drawled the word slowly, “if THRUSH were to get hold of this little invention, they could wipe out a whole nation in one fell swoop, silently and insidiously, simply by administering Mengele’s drug by stealth to the population. No violence, no bombs or war, just a population ageing and dying. A slow, painless genocide.”

“Don’t forget, Mr Solo,” Waverly interrupted, “They would still have to persuade the women to take the drug. There would be many who already resist all forms of birth control, for various reasons including religious beliefs. It would be no easy feat, that's for sure.”

“Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong, sir,” Napoleon continued urgently, “Why bother to administer it as a pharmaceutical medicine when you can put it in the water system? This stuff is like DDT; it’s extremely stable and virtually indestructible. If it once gets out, it will hang around in the ecosystem almost indefinitely.”

“And that’s why we have to prevent THRUSH from getting hold of it,” Waverly said flatly.

Napoleon stared, wrapping his mind around the fact that his boss had been aware of the situation all along. “And the KGB?” he challenged, after a pause, “What’s to stop them using it as a weapon of war? What’s to stop _our own administration_ doing the same, come to that?”

Waverly favoured Napoleon with a long, hard stare, then he gestured abruptly to his visitors’ chair.

“Come now, Mr Solo; don’t stand on ceremony,” he said brusquely. Napoleon obeyed, feeling like he had strayed into a parallel universe.

“What I am about to tell you must never leave this room,” Waverly began urgently, “I was hoping to keep the information solely within Section 1 but since you have worked most of it out already, I can easily see that’s not going to be possible.

“Doctor Mengele’s research has caused a serious ethical dilemma amongst the leaders of our own nation,” Waverly continued, “but this is a mere blip compared with the turmoil currently raging in the Kremlin. Since word of this drug was leaked, the Russian government has split irrevocably between those who recognise it as a serious danger and those who see it as an opportunity. Several months ago, UNCLE was approached by a representative of an extremely highly-placed member of the Russian government. He begged us to find Doctor Mengele and eliminate both his invention and the man himself in order to keep the USSR and the world safe. He cited a hard-line element in the Politburo that had seized on this invention as the definitive solution to the country's own problems with famine and with dissident populations, particularly in the satellite nations. This element will stop at nothing to obtain Doktor Mengele’s drug. These hard-liners feel that the recent relaxation in certain aspects of Soviet society is a symptom of capitalist decadence – a retrograde step – and that state sponsored use of this drug will bring the population to heel and allow a more controlled society to emerge.”

Waverly chewed on his pipe stem. “And to add fuel to the flames,” he continued, “there have been whispers from the Chinese government.” He shook his head morosely. 

Napoleon frowned. “But…” he began, “…the famine… Sir, the Chinese lost 15 million people!”

“That is the figure quoted by Government sources,” Waverly agreed, “Unofficial figures make it closer to 30 million – and it’s still rising.” He sighed. “Unfortunately, the Chinese Government blames overpopulation rather than flaws in its state system. To certain factions in power, this invention looks like a gift from heaven.”

Napoleon swallowed. He ran a knuckle over his bottom lip. “Well,” he murmured, schooling his features into something like their usual affability, “That’s something of a facer, Sir.”

“Indeed,” Waverly replied, his expression grave, “Now we not only have to keep THRUSH at bay, we have to make sure the research on this drug ends up in our hands, and our hands alone, without appearing to be meddling in foreign politics. Which, of course, we are.”

“Sir,” Napoleon said in a worried tone, “Illya is out there without backup, against his own people.”

“Yes, Mr Solo, and I’m sorry I had to put him in this position,” Waverly’s tone was heavy. “Mr Kuryakin’s ability to pass himself off as an innocent Russian sportsman, his expertise in snow and, obviously, his knowledge of the country and its people – all these things meant that he was the only agent I could send, and I had to send him alone or risk alerting the Soviets by using someone with a non-Russian passport."

Waverly sighed. "Believe me, Mr Solo, I regret the necessity," he continued, "And I am sincerely worried, particularly as we cannot make contact with him at present.”

Several unrelated pieces oriented themselves to fit neatly into the jigsaw.

“Which explains Illya’s reluctance to take the mission,” Napoleon muttered, “Sir, for the record, apart from THRUSH, the KGB and the Chinese MPS, are there any other interested parties we need to keep tabs on?”

“Not as such, Mr Solo,” Waverly rubbed his index finger over his bottom lip, “Well, unless you count the CIA, of course.”

“The CIA,” Napoleon echoed, “And they would be interested precisely why?”

“For the same reasons we are, of course,” Waverly replied impatiently, “For the promotion of world peace and the judicious and equitable use of population control.”

“Judicious and equitable,” repeated Napoleon, feeling the words settle in his stomach like stones.

 

The last upward climb to anything was always the killer, Illya reflected as he staggered, slipping and sliding in the snow, almost at the end of his strength. Black dots swam in his vision and he gritted his teeth, forcing his body to obey by willpower alone. Illya was running on empty and he knew it. He paused, swiping a hand over his eyes, but the black dots in his eyes did not move. Instead, they coalesced and resolved themselves into a solid image. To Illya’s overwhelming relief, he realised that he had reached the distant cabin. 

Luck was more than with him. Approaching the building, Illya saw at once that this was no animal pen or barn but a house, solidly built for human habitation. He lurched into the rough wooden door, fumbled with the latch, offering up a prayer of thanksgiving to a god he didn’t believe in, and dragged the woman inside. He bolted the door behind him and fell back against the flat surface, his breath heaving in great gasps.

The silence was deafening. After the din made by the howling wind and the groaning and lashing of the trees, Illya’s ears rang shrilly. Breath rasping in his throat, he looked around a single-room hut with simple but adequate facilities. The cabin boasted a central fireplace with a stove and an oven in the chimney. A rough refectory table and two wooden chairs took up the middle of the room, and there was a large, low pallet covered with a mattress, blankets and animal skins serving as a bed. Around the walls were several cupboards and sets of shelves, all covered in a fine sheen of dust. The place smelt musty and unused.

Illya wasted no time second-guessing his good fortune. He left the unconscious woman where she fell on the floor and shrugged off his pack. His skis he stowed outside under the overhang. He beat his sluggish brain into gear; heat – that had to be the first priority. He opened the stove door finding it clean but empty. He searched around, uncovering some kindling which he set aside, but no actual fuel. He stood, hand clutched in his hair, and stared around the room as if he expected firewood to come out of the walls.

_She is not the only one who is hypothermic. Think clearly, Illya Nickovetch, if you can. Firewood is not kept indoors long-term. There will be a wood store and it will be outside. Find it before the blizzard really hits._

Illya opened the door and reeled as snow and ice was hurled into his face. He shrank back shielding his eyes, then reached for his goggles and fought his way back into the maelstrom. It was a good twenty minutes before he was able to return, having at last located the woodstore at the back of the hut. He knew the small amount he could carry in one round trip would not be sufficient to keep the stove alight for the whole night, but at least he could thaw out a little before running the gantlet a second time.

The wood was dry enough to burn. Greatly relieved, Illya made up the fire with kindling, added some of the cut wood and rooted out a waterproof cigarette lighter from his pack. Illya did not smoke as a general rule, but this useful piece of equipment was standard for every field agent. The kindling caught and flared brightly. Illya nursed and tended the wood until it had caught properly and would be unlikely to go out, then he closed the door of the stove, made sure there was sufficient draught and stood considering his next move.

He was still much too cold, Illya thought. He had stopped shivering some time ago and he knew that his brain was not working on all four cylinders. The woman was pale and unconscious and her pulse was erratic. It sank through to Illya’s forebrain that she had crossed the river as he had, but unlike him she had no waders and was probably soaked through as a result.

Illya moved the low pallet as near to the stove as he could safely manage, dragged the unconscious woman onto bed and had started to wrap the bedclothes around her before it occurred to him that if her clothing were waterlogged, this measure would probably kill her. He unfastened and removed her parka, noting that he was indeed correct and the clothing beneath was icy cold and wet. She had been well-provisioned for the climate with good quality gear, he reflected, as he took off garment after sopping, freezing garment until he was down to her silk base layer. Quickly, he cocooned her in the bedclothes, hoping that this would at least stave off the symptoms while he attended to the next step.

Looking around the hut, his eye fell on a leather bucket near the door which he snatched up quickly. Braving the elements once again, Illya filled the bucket with snow, tipping it into an iron cookpot which rested on top of the stove. While waiting impatiently for the snow to melt, Illya ransacked the cupboards and shelves, finding crockery, cutlery and some items of cookware including a coffee pot. There was also a selection of canned and bottled foods which he made a mental note to investigate more thoroughly at a later time, and a square, airtight box which on further inspection turned out to contain hard biscuits. As he replaced the items, Illya disturbed a smaller, flat tin which he picked up curiously. The words on the label may have been illegible but the illustration was unmistakeable – chocolate! Illya’s cracked lips curved into a weak smile. He palmed the small package and transferred it to an inner pocket of his pack.

Judging that the melted snow was by now sufficiently heated for his purposes, Illya filled one of the mugs with warm water and drank it down. The drink scalded like fire and Illya doubled over, trying to catch his breath. The process of reviving cold flesh was more akin to agony than relief, he reflected; he could feel the burn all the way down to his toes. Doggedly, he gulped down three full cups before starting to remove his outer garments. To his relief, he began to shiver convulsively.

His parka lay where it fell, his freezing fingers fumbled with boot laces and trouser fastenings. Dimly, he noticed that his socks were wet. He worked them painfully off feet that were almost completely numb and draped them against the stove to dry. 

Down to his long-sleeved and long-legged underwear, Illya crawled determinedly under the layers of bedding and wrapped himself around the unconscious assassin’s body, trying to ignore the searing burn of her flesh. He gritted his teeth and pulled her closer, tucking the blankets over their heads, breathing warm air over her eyes and frozen ears. Despite his increasingly frantic efforts, she remained unresponsive. He gripped her wrist with frozen fingers but the numbness of his own hands meant that he could not tell if she had a pulse or not. With no other recourse available to him, Illya continued to wrap his shivering, barely warming limbs around hers until fatigue and weariness overcame him and he slept. The last thing he remembered before oblivion took him was wondering if he would wake wrapped around a corpse. 

It seemed quite likely.


	5. Somewhere in Turkey

Napoleon stood on the concourse at Yeşilköy Airport, Istanbul absently rubbing eyes made gritty by the long Pan Am flight from La Guardia.

“Sir?”

Napoleon turned to see a smartly dressed chauffeur who touched his cap respectfully.

“Sir, I will take your bags,” the man said, giving Napoleon a brief, professional smile.

Napoleon’s face settled into an easy grin. “You are very kind,” he responded, keeping firm hold of both his valise and attaché case. Unable to take charge of either without a scuffle, the other man stood back deferentially.

“The limousine is this way.” The man gestured towards a little-used exit which apparently led to the underground parking garage. He ushered Napoleon away from the bustle of the terminal building.

Napoleon, in turn, deliberately dragged his feet, searching in his pocket firstly for his his lighter then his pack of cigarettes. Taking his time, he applied the one to the other, took a long drag of smoke and sighed.

“I am supposed to meet a young lady here.” Napoleon breathed smoke into the face of the chauffeur, whose patience was evidently beginning to wear thin.

“Yes, sir,” the man replied. “She is in the car. Come along, sir; you mustn’t keep the lady waiting.”

“Well, now.” Napoleon stopped moving and appeared to consider the point. “Actually, you know I’ve never met her.” He laughed. “Strange, isn’t it?”

“Not at all, sir.” The chauffeur was all but pushing Napoleon by now.

“Ah, that would be Miss, ah, Mitchell, wouldn’t it?” Napoleon enquired easily.

The chauffeur nodded. “Yes, Miss Mitchell,” he replied, “and she is a stickler for punctuality.”

 _Mayday, mayday._

Napoleon’s mind turned over the options. Refuse to co-operate, walk away and risk a sleep dart or, worse, a bullet from either the chauffeur or his backup, wherever they were. Napoleon winced inwardly. Okay. Allow himself to be manoeuvred away and in the process try to discover whether his companion was armed or had backup. Better, but not ideal; an isolated parking lot was never a good venue unless you had the upper hand. He scratched his ear thoughtfully; his choices seemed to be somewhat limited. 

_“Darling!”_

A shrill cry from the main terminal entrance made both Napoleon and his would-be kidnapper turn their heads. A slender redhead dressed in an eye-catching yellow summer dress was rapidly gaining on them at a run, heels clicking against the tiled floor. She waved frantically, her generous mouth stretched in a positively fluorescent smile.

“Darling, you’re going the wrong way!” she admonished Napoleon as she rushed towards him, arms outstretched. “I said the _main_ entrance, silly!”

And to Napoleon’s outward surprise and inward delight, the unknown girl flung her arms around his neck and kissed him soundly, full on the mouth with every indication of enjoyment. Never one to turn down a free lunch, Napoleon participated fully, so much so that he almost protested when the girl swiftly drew an UNCLE Special from a concealed holster and pushed the barrel into the ribs of the chauffeur, business end first.

“Freeze!” The command was punctuated by a lift of her chin. Her grey eyes were completely steady as was her aim.

The chauffeur spread his hands and held them at waist level. “Now listen, little lady,” he began with a smirk, “you can shoot me if you wanna, but it ain’t gonna help you none.”

“THRUSH, I presume?” Napoleon glanced carefully about him and made three potential gunmen spaced out in good cover. 

The chauffeur grinned nastily. “On the nail, buddy,” he replied. “All of us.”

The redhead’s forehead crinkled in annoyance as she too registered the company. She lifted the barrel of her weapon in defeat, acknowledging the superior firepower. 

The chauffeur promptly drew his own pistol and pointed it unerringly at Napoleon. “Move!” he commanded, with a jerk of his head towards the parking garage entrance.

The redhead glared. “You won’t get far,” she told the chauffeur as he continued to drag Napoleon away. “We have the place surrounded.”

“Somewhere this size?” The man shook his head with a grim chuckle. “In your dreams. Keep your gun pointing to the floor, little lady, and you might stand a chance of getting out of this alive.”

Seeing no alternative, Napoleon accompanied the man into the underground parking lot where he was thrust roughly into the back of an anonymous sedan. The engine was already running and the car took off at speed almost as soon as the doors were closed. 

Napoleon righted himself after having been thrown rather violently to one side and looked up with a smile straight into the barrel of yet another pistol. He sighed; this was beginning to get old.

“Don’t even think about it,” the owner of the pistol growled before Napoleon could open his mouth. 

Shrugging, Napoleon concentrated on holding on while the car weaved its way through dense rush hour traffic, scarcely slowing from the breakneck speed it had adopted at the start.

The chauffeur sat in the front passenger seat. He turned to point his pistol once again at Napoleon. “If you wanna stay alive, Solo," he said flatly, "you better shut up and sit very still. Our orders are to bring you in, preferably alive, but the alternative is fine by me.”

Napoleon swallowed and put on his best game face. “I give you my word I will be as quiet as a mouse,” he promised.

The chauffeur tilted his head at the gunman on Napoleon’s left. “Cuff him,” he snapped.

Napoleon held up his hands. “Now, I’m sure there’s no need for extreme measures,” he began affably.

The chauffeur gave a humourless smile. “I warned you,” he said. He nodded to the gunman again and the lights went out.

By the time Napoleon blinked his way back into the world, he was lying mostly on the floor of the car, jammed uncomfortably into the foot well with his hands securely cuffed. He twisted awkwardly and bit back a curse. He hated when the cuffs were behind him; it made picking the locks so much more difficult and time-consuming. In the recent past, Napoleon had spent some considerable effort practising yoga moves designed to make him more flexible, but despite this he still could not replicate his partner’s trick of sliding his bound hands under his legs to the front. Not that this manoeuvre would have been possible in his current situation, Napoleon thought with chagrin. Unsurprisingly, he had a headache.

“Coming into traffic.” It was the third man, the driver, who spoke.

“Take a side road,” the chauffeur told him.

“Nah, it’ll just lead back onto this one,” the driver replied. “We’re stuck for a while.”

Napoleon used the relative camouflage of being wedged below eye level to ease his wire lock pick out of the seam of his cuff.

“What’s holding things up?” the chauffeur groused, craning his neck fruitlessly.

“Rush hour on a Friday,” the driver told him. “It’s the same the world over.”

A tiny click told Napoleon his efforts with the first cuff had been successful. Under cover of his position, he carefully slid the pick into a convenient pocket; it was a good little tool and acquiring another in this part of the world would be difficult, particularly one that didn’t wrinkle his shirts.

Suddenly there was a tremendous bang and the car jumped abruptly to one side, hard enough to give the seated passengers whiplash. Napoleon hung on as best he could.

“Whaaat?” the chauffeur shrieked. “He hadta been doin’ at least eighty!”

“He didn’t even slow down!” the driver complained, swearing fluently for emphasis. He swung the wheel and stamped heavily on the break whereupon they came to a sudden standstill at the side of the road. Immediately all four doors were flung open with no ceremony whatsoever.

“Out of the car – _get out of the car!_ ” The stentorian tones delivered through a megaphone brooked no disobedience. “On the road face down, _do it now!”_

Napoleon kept very still, uncertain as to his role in this new development.

“Mr Solo?” The voice was female with a Californian drawl. Napoleon turned onto his back with difficulty and started to sit up.

“Oh, good, you’re okay!” 

The pretty redhead in the yellow dress smiled and holstered her gun before offering Napoleon a hand. With her assistance, he levered himself stiffly out of the car. She nodded at the dangling cuffs.

“Don’t worry,” she told him, “I’ll have you out of those before you can sneeze. Looks like you’d gotten some way towards rescuing yourself before we came on the scene, huh?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Napoleon replied, smiling into her eyes and keeping hold of her hand a shade too long. “It makes a pleasant change for the beautiful girl to rescue the hero, don’t you agree?”

To her credit, the girl’s smile did not falter but her eye roll was all too evident. “Sure,” she replied pausing to root in her purse and coming up with a small key. “I see you live up to your reputation, Mr Solo, even when the chips are down.” Deftly, she unlocked the remaining handcuff.

“I see no reason to let standards slide,” Napoleon replied flexing his newly freed wrist, “particularly where THRUSH is concerned.” He glanced back at the scene of chaos around him. 

Frisked and cuffed by the local police, the chauffeur and his two friends were being stuffed none too gently into the back of an official van. Their damaged car had been moved to the side of the road and was in the process of being towed away. The police vehicle used to ram the THRUSH car remained surprisingly unscathed. The traffic was at a standstill and the sound of revving engines and impatient motor horns was deafening.

Napoleon shrugged, bowed his head and smiled at the redhead. “My thanks,” he said. “I, ah, guess it’s a little late for introductions, Miss Caplan?”

The woman smiled. “Sure is, Mr Solo,” she replied. “I think we can take ‘em as read, don’t you? Come with me.” Caplan turned on her heel and stalked off, weaving her way between the stationary cars, leaving Napoleon no option but to retrieve his luggage and follow her.

Her destination was a dirt car park just off the main road. Caplan ushered Napoleon into the passenger seat of a small convertible, threw his luggage into the back seat and started the engine with unnecessary vigour. They roared off in the opposite direction to the queueing traffic, Napoleon trying not to look as though he was hanging on for dear life. 

As they hit the freeway, Napoleon took out his pocket handkerchief and mopped his forehead. “UNCLE Istanbul seems to have a good working relationship with the local law enforcement office,” he remarked, risking a grin. “You have them well trained.”

Caplan slanted a glance at him while keeping her eye on the road. She smiled. “Mr Osman is a man of many connections,” she replied cryptically, “and it is fortunate for you that he is in a position to make life easy – or difficult – for the police.”

Napoleon nodded slowly, digesting that one. He winced and instinctively ducked as Caplan swerved around a truck without slowing down, having barely an inch of clearance.

Napoleon smoothed his hair down reflexively. “May I ask where we are headed?” he enquired with, he thought, admirable aplomb.

Caplan gave him another sidelong look. “UNCLE Istanbul, of course,” she replied gunning the engine once again; Napoleon swallowed unhappily.

 

Istanbul’s UNCLE offices were not exactly what Napoleon had imagined. 

Caplan parked the convertible on the street, slammed the driver door behind her and took off without a backward glance. Napoleon followed curiously. Without slowing her stride, Caplan adjusted her outfit and abruptly what appeared to be a fashionable scarf became a shawl covering her head. She led Napoleon through a wooden double door, under a round arch and, with a waft of incense and burning candles, into a church. 

Napoleon hardly had time even to glance around in astonishment before Caplan whisked him away through a discreet door in the far corner, but he saw enough to realise that this was a real, functioning Greek Orthodox Church. Mass was currently being said in one of the side chapels. 

Napoleon blinked. He was now in what looked like the church office; a small room containing a desk, a telephone and a smiling matron doing the crossword over a cup of coffee.

“Good afternoon, Mrs Yavuz,” Caplan said politely. The matron inclined her head and pressed a button concealed beneath the desk. Part of the opposite wall swung inwards in a very familiar manner and Napoleon found himself suddenly in a very familiar place.

“Yes, it is,” Caplan told him as she received her badge from the very pretty receptionist.

Napoleon, slightly derailed in the operation of his easy charm on the other girl, paused and raised his eyebrows enquiringly. Caplan laughed as she led him briskly through the corridors towards the elevators. 

“Don’t worry,” she assured him, “I haven’t been exposed to some kind of THRUSH mind-reading device. Everyone asks the same question: is it a real church? No one can believe the cover we have here. It’s an honest-to-goodness, working church, truly. UNCLE Istanbul is built on and under the ruins of Holy Trinity Greek Orthodox Church which was destroyed during the race riots of 1955.”

“It looks pretty good for a ruin,” Napoleon remarked, looking backward over his shoulder as if he could obtain corroboration that way.

“UNCLE rebuilt it in exchange for the use of the crypts for our HQ,” Caplan explained. “Of course, we had to excavate down several extra levels. We also pay Mrs Yavuz a retainer to act as front of house.”

“Isn’t that a rather dangerous job for an elderly lady?” Napoleon ventured, thinking of the wily Sal Del Floria in New York.

Caplan’s smile broadened. “Well, yes,” she replied, “it would be – for any other elderly lady. Mrs Yavuz is ex-UNCLE.” 

Napoleon’s eyebrows threatened to meet his hairline. 

Caplan shrugged. “Way ahead of you here,” she told him

“And the Greek Orthodox Church doesn’t mind?” Napoleon queried mildly.

Caplan gave a sad smile. “It was a very bad time,” she replied obliquely. 

She led the way into an office the mirror image of Waverly’s in New York. The man sitting at the desk rose to his feet at Napoleon’s entry and advanced with a friendly, professional smile.

“Mr Solo, good to meet you here, safe and sound,” he said heartily, “I am Adem Osman, Chief of UNCLE Istanbul. My apologies for the inconvenience at the airport.”

“It’s good to be here,” Napoleon responded, grasping the outstretched hand firmly. Osman’s grip was strong and dry.

Osman touched a button on his intercom. “Heidi, would you bring us coffee, please?” he said, signing off without waiting for a reply. “Sit down, Mr Solo,” he urged. “You’ve had a long and eventful journey.”

“Yes, I have,” Napoleon agreed, moving to sit in the surprisingly comfortable visitors’ chair, “and it’s likely to get longer. I take it you’ve heard nothing from my partner?”

Osman shook his head. “No,” he replied, “and neither has New York. Alexander Waverly confirmed it 20 minutes ago.” 

Osman fixed Napoleon with a serious expression. “Number One’s orders are to go ahead with the extraction as planned,” he said. “However, we have had some serious problems with THRUSH maritime vessels in the Black Sea stirring up trouble between the Turkish and Russian navies.”

“What kind of trouble?” Napoleon asked.

Osman sighed. “You name it, we’ve had to deal with it,” he replied. “At first, THRUSH were simply impersonating Russian naval vessels at a distance, apparently violating the Montreux Convention just by their presence. However, recently they’ve been actually attacking and sinking Turkish vessels, blaming it on the Russians. There are never any survivors so we can neither confirm nor deny the contentions. The Kremlin, of course, refutes the allegations in the strongest possible terms, but the situation in the Bosphorus is so sensitive at the moment that it’s like a giant powder keg: one spark and the whole thing could blow up in our faces at a moment’s notice.”

“Yes, I see,” Napoleon ran a thumb thoughtfully over his chin. “And this means that the Black Sea is pretty busy at present, so a stealth operation is going to be difficult.”

“Also, THRUSH could already be aware of our operation,” Caplan put in. She had quietly taken a chair to Napoleon’s right. 

“We’re assuming that all is well with Mr Kuryakin bar the weather conditions,” she continued, “but unfortunately that is just a guess. Mr Kuryakin and Dr Mengele could already be prisoners of THRUSH, or they both could simply have perished in the mountains. Unless and until we hear from Mr Kuryakin, we just don’t know.”

Napoleon flashed her a look of dislike. “I think I know my partner’s survival expertise rather better than you, Miss Caplan,” he replied gravely. “Illya is a cold weather expert; he’ll pull through.” Napoleon wished he felt as confident as he sounded.

They were interrupted by a leggy blonde who Napoleon assumed had to be Heidi. She smiled engagingly at Napoleon as she served him with coffee, adding cream but no sugar without having to be told. Napoleon felt his face relaxing as he treated Heidi to the famous 1000W Solo charm offensive. By the time she had dispensed with the coffee and withdrawn from the room, he had established not only where her desk was situated but her lack of a wedding ring and what time she habitually took her lunch break. 

Caplan’s smile as she watched the proceedings bordered on insolence, and she actually rolled her eyes when the woman left the office. 

Osman’s eyebrow quirked minutely. “I see your reputation is justified, Mr Solo,” he said caustically. Napoleon merely raised his eyebrows and brought his coffee cup to his lips.

As they drank, Osman laid out exactly how much in the way of resources he was prepared to authorise for the operation. He assigned both Napoleon and Caplan to the extraction team, a move which, in Napoleon’s opinion, was a mixed blessing, particularly as Osman also appointed Caplan as team leader.

Where women as business partners and equals figured, Napoleon was as accommodating as the next man of his generation. Women were fine in the office, in the labs or, if they were pretty, in his bed, but when push came to shove he preferred to work with men. It didn’t help that Caplan had seen straight through him from the get go and was clearly unimpressed. Napoleon was unused to being weighed in the balance and found wanting. It disturbed him; he was troubled by how much.

As they left Osman’s office, Caplan strode off down the corridor still talking. Napoleon had to stretch his legs to avoid being left behind; in heels, she was at least his height. 

Caplan’s office was smaller than her boss’s but she at least had a row of potted plants on the windowsill and a few framed photographs on her desk. Napoleon picked up one of a smiling, gap-toothed boy of about seven.

“Cute,” he remarked, raising his eyebrows. “Yours?”

Caplan gave him an old-fashioned look. “Hardly,” she replied, gathering up papers on her desk.

Napoleon felt his face heat. He cleared his throat awkwardly.

“Nephew.” Caplan took pity on him. She looked up and nodded at the visitor’s chair. “Sit down, Mr Solo.”

“Thank you, Miss Caplan.” Napoleon would have preferred to stand but felt obliged to take an olive branch when it was offered.

Caplan’s hands paused in their task. “I think seeing as we’re going to be working closely together over the next few days, you should call me Daniella,” she told him.

“Napoleon,” he responded, inclining his head with an easy smile he did not totally feel. There was a pause, then Napoleon shifted forward on his chair, bringing his hands together.

“Miss Caplan,” he began. She narrowed her eyes. “Daniella,” he corrected with an apologetic smile, “I hope you don’t mind me bringing this up, but there’s something that has been bugging me ever since we first spoke about this particular mission.”

Caplan gave him a brief smile and sat down at her desk. “Fire away,” she told him, clasping her hands in front of her on the blotter.

“Okay.” Napoleon paused, gathering his thoughts, then rose from his chair and began to pace.

“When we spoke on the telephone,” he began slowly, “and you briefed me on Ernst Mengele, you said something about his background being worth investigating, yes?”

She nodded. “And did you follow it up?” she replied with a lift of well-marked eyebrows.

Napoleon leaned his hands on the edge of her desk. “I did,” he replied shortly, “and the things I learned about him did not make comfortable reading.”

“No,” she replied quietly. “No, they wouldn’t.”

“What I would like to know is this,” Napoleon continued. “Why did you feel it necessary to give me the heads up?”

Caplan shook her head. “I’m afraid I don’t fully understand you,” she replied, “or if I do, then this must be the first time any UNCLE agent has complained about being _too_ well-briefed!” Her smile was artless and sweet.

“Oh, come on!” Napoleon slapped a hand down on the desk top. “Don’t play the innocent with me, Daniella. This was no happenstance; it was a deliberate ploy. Now, I want to know why!”

Caplan flicked a glance up at him and just for a moment, Napoleon thought he might have seen a glimmer of indecision. Then she slowly stood until her height brought them eye to eye and her face hardened.

“I take it by your reaction that UNCLE New York is perfectly willing to overlook this man’s crimes in exchange for what he can give us, yes?” she retorted crisply. “Well, that’s a policy decision and not in my remit, but I don’t like working in the dark and I like working with ignorance even less. I considered it my duty to ensure that you were fully aware of exactly what you were taking on.”

“We aren’t here to make judgments,” Napoleon argued. “Policy is handled by Section 1 and we exist merely to apply…”

“I know the _spiel,_ as well as you, Napoleon,” she interrupted sharply. “I live by it, but I don’t have to like it!”

“True,” Napoleon nodded, “but if you felt so strongly about the situation, why didn’t you go to Osman?”

Caplan’s angry eyes dropped away from his. “Mr Osman is a good operative and he runs a tight ship,” she said more quietly, “but like many men of his type, he won’t take direction from a subordinate – particularly a woman.”

“So you decided to do things your own way,” Napoleon finished, nodding his head.

Caplan shrugged. “I considered it necessary for you to have all the relevant information, certainly,” she volleyed. “What you do with it is, well, up to you.”

Napoleon’s full lips thinned out with impatience. He turned on his heel. “I’m going for lunch,” he told the other agent without looking back.

Caplan raised an eyebrow. “Heidi always sits on the left hand side near the window,” she told him with a helpful smile.

Napoleon resisted the urge to slam the door. Just.

It irked him. It stuck in his craw and it galled Napoleon to have his faith in UNCLE’s decisions in general and Alexander Waverly’s in particular shaken by the sheer bloody-mindedness of a junior enforcement agent, a slip of a girl at that. 

Napoleon had a pleasant lunch with the delightful Heidi, going through the motions that would garner her as a dinner partner later that evening, but his heart wasn’t really in it and he blamed Caplan for that too. Try as he might, Napoleon could not shake the distinct feeling that he had been had. He didn’t like it. Not one bit.

Having agreed a time and place for his evening assignation with the lovely secretary, Napoleon went in search of his assigned room deep in the bowels of the UNCLE building. To his relief, he discovered that his valise and briefcase had arrived ahead of him. He uncapped his communicator to make his scheduled check-in.

“Mr Solo,” Waverly’s gruff voice was distorted by distance, “I’m glad to hear you arrived safely.”

“Yes, sir,” Napoleon replied, “just a little avian trouble at the airport. Nothing to worry about.”

“Yes, I believe Agent Caplan came to your rescue.”

Napoleon unclenched his jaw. “Yes, sir, she did.” He swallowed. “In fact, sir, about that.”

“Yes, Mr Solo? Is there some problem?”

Napoleon frowned. “I’m not sure, sir,” he replied, “but if it would be possible for Sam to do a little digging on the redoubtable Miss Caplan, I’d be obliged.”

“On Miss Caplan?” Waverly’s voice was surprised. “Mr Solo, Miss Caplan comes highly recommended from MOSSAD and her latest performance reviews from Mr Osman were exemplary. I can’t imagine what further information you think Sam would be able to find.”

“It’s just a small thing,” Napoleon replied placatingly, “but this is such a sensitive issue, sir, I feel I would be being negligent if I let it slide.” 

Waverly was silent for a moment; Napoleon could hear him breathing over the airwaves.

“Hmmmph! Well,” Waverly said at length, “Mr Solo, if I were to sanction any kind of investigation into Miss Caplan, it would have to be done very quietly and that will take time.” Waverly’s tone was all business. “The last thing UNCLE New York needs is tension with MOSSAD,” he continued, “or indeed any kind of bad feeling between us and the nearest UNCLE outpost to the Soviet Union. I’m sure you have your reasons, Mr Solo, I just hope they’re good ones. For your sake,” he added, unnecessarily.

“Thank you, sir, I believe they are,” Napoleon replied with conviction. He hoped he was right.

Napoleon capped his communicator and pursed his lips. Waverly had at least agreed to it even if he couldn’t expedite the investigation. However, later might just be too late for Napoleon’s mission. Making his mind up, Napoleon pocketed his communicator and opened his valise.

Two hours, a shower and the dextrous use of a travel iron later, Napoleon stood in front of the full length mirror in the bathroom adjusting his favourite silk tie. He shot his cuffs, admiring the glint of the gold cufflinks, and inspected the shine on his shoes critically. All perfect. He smiled complacently at his reflection.

A peremptory hammering on the door reminded Napoleon that he was in communal UNCLE accommodation. He gathered his remaining belongings and departed.

Napoleon sauntered through the corridors, so similar to his own in New York, towards the small, discreet office that housed Osman’s secretary. As he approached, he heard voices through the open door and slowed down sufficiently to eavesdrop.

“I know lunch was hours ago, Heidi, but did he say where he was going this afternoon?” The voice was Daniella Caplan’s and her patience was clearly hanging by a thread.

Heidi’s reply was below audible level but Napoleon could see through the open doorway that she was occupied adjusting her hair in the mirror of her powder compact and had no time for the junior agent. 

Caplan sighed. “Look,” she tried again, “I need to talk to him. Surely you can just track him down for me before you go home? I know you’re done for the day, but this is important.”

Heidi’s desk was clear, her purse was on the blotter and her coat slung with artful carelessness around her slender shoulders. It was evident that she had no intention of satisfying Caplan’s request.

Napoleon plastered on his habitual affable smile entered the office, feather-footed.

“Good evening Heidi, Daniella.” Napoleon inclined his head graciously to both women and received a brilliant smile from the former. The latter at least managed not to startle.

“Napoleon.” Caplan acknowledged his presence with a firm smile. “Just the man. I was hoping to talk to you about plans for Doktor Mengele’s extraction. I’ve worked out a strategy for the best use of resources and I was wondering if I could go over it with you sometime this evening?”

Napoleon’s social smile morphed into polite regret. “Whilst under any other circumstances I would be delighted to spend the evening with you, Daniella,” he replied, creamily, “I’m afraid I am otherwise engaged over dinner with Miss Goodpaster.” He bowed respectfully in the lovely Heidi’s direction and mirrored her smile. 

Caplan glanced from one to the other. “Perhaps later on then?” she suggested to Napoleon. “After dinner? I can do about an hour between 10 and 11. After that, I’m covering a stakeout until 3am; Chen Shi is in the infirmary. Broke his ankle escaping from a moving car last week.”

Heidi sniffed quietly; Napoleon’s lips twitched. “I think I will have to take a rain check on that,” he responded smoothly. “How about tomorrow?” He turned to offer his arm to Heidi who rose promptly from her chair and laid her graceful hand on his wrist.

Caplan stared at the pair and her shoulders slumped visibly. “Okay,” she muttered. “Tomorrow it is.”

Caplan scowled at Napoleon’s back as he squired Heidi through reception and out into Holy Trinity Church. Even the knowledge that Heidi’s perfect coiffure would be disarrayed by the necessity of covering her head whilst in church gave her scant satisfaction.

Heidi really was extravagantly beautiful, Napoleon decided over a wonderful Chateau Neuf du Pape together with Beef Wellington so tender it melted on the tongue. In fact, she was so very lovely that a man could spend many happy hours simply gazing at her. Which was fortunate as her conversation was – how could he put it gently? – somewhat limited even taking into account her less than perfect grasp of English. Nevertheless, Napoleon had worked with less promising material before and engendered a measure of success. Besides, he had something of an ulterior motive above and beyond the obvious.

Post-dinner champagne at a local club and a nightcap back at Heidi’s apartment two blocks away had led to many, many other things, and Napoleon was just now catching his breath several hours later. Heidi's sporting accomplishments included yoga, long distance running, judo and kickboxing, Napoleon had learned uneasily over dinner. Her energy in bed had certainly proved the point. A difficult day together with jet lag and a shortage of sleep meant that even Napoleon’s legendary stamina had been put sorely to the test. When Heidi finally slowed, eyelids drooping into slumber, he greeted the respite with a profound sense of relief.

Napoleon extricated himself without waking his bedmate by skill born of long practice. Generally, he avoided staying the whole night with a woman even if her apartment was UNCLE secure. He told himself it was dangerous for his companion, not to mention hazardous for himself, to be without Section 2 security measures while he slept, but privately he admitted this had less to do with security and much more to do with maintaining distance. As a result, he had grown accustomed to dressing in the dark and exiting strange buildings without discovery. 

Napoleon left Heidi’s apartment block via the service exit, ensuring that his jamming of the lock would be invisible to a cursory inspection. He walked swiftly to the main street, hailed a taxi and gave the driver directions to an address only a mile or two away. On arrival, Napoleon paid the man to wait outside for two hours, promising him a handsome tip on his return. He then walked for a couple of blocks until he arrived at a low-key apartment building whose security was rather above the usual level for the area. Napoleon had not been UNCLE trained for nothing and his ingress was swift, slick and undetectable: the beautiful Heidi had no idea what she had unleashed by letting slip Daniella Caplan’s address.

Caplan’s miniscule apartment was tidy, minimal and showed excellent taste in its décor. A few carefully chosen modern ceramics adorned surfaces in the living room, and Napoleon found himself admiring an exquisite Italian gouache of the Amalfi coast hung in pride of place above the hearth, which had to be a family heirloom. The kitchen was well-equipped but seemed somewhat unused with only a coffeemaker and a toaster visible on the immaculate counters. Nothing jarred or spoke of ill-gotten gains. Napoleon set himself to go through the place down to the bones.

One hour later, Napoleon was beginning to seriously doubt himself. From the very beginning, Caplan had set Napoleon’s antennae pinging; there was something held back about her, something he did not entirely trust. However, he could find nothing in her apartment anywhere to indicate that she was anything other than a loyal UNCLE agent. The cistern of the toilet yielded nothing, neither did the freezer, the floorboards were all securely nailed down and the mattress covering the solid wooden bed frame was completely unbreached. 

Napoleon stood in the middle of the living room and scratched his head in perplexity. Meticulously, he went over the place once again, ensuring that everything went back exactly the way he had found it. For the sake of completeness, he went through the bookshelves twice more before calling it a day, finding nothing. In fact, the only discordant note in the entire apartment was a small book in German entitled “Humor hinter dem Eisernen Vorhang” by one Mischa Kukin. Napoleon checked the spine and covers finding nothing untoward. His German was good enough to understand the gist of the text, but he wondered why an Israeli-American UNCLE agent would possess a German joke book about life in Soviet Russia.

 _Perhaps it was a gift._ Napoleon replaced the slim volume on the shelf and sighed, stretching cramped shoulders. He left the apartment as quietly as he had entered, none the wiser for his efforts. 

Fortunately for Napoleon, he had happened upon an honest taxi driver, or possibly one who was happy to catch up on some sleep and save the gas. Whichever, the man drove him back to Heidi’s block without question, and Napoleon let himself in once again through the service exit. Removing his clothes for the second time that evening in Heidi’s bathroom, Napoleon shivered, pulling on a robe from the back of the door, and silently made his way back to her bed.

Heidi stirred and opened soft blue eyes as the bed dipped to admit Napoleon. He smiled gently into her face and kissed her unresisting lips. She frowned and blinked at him.

“Your mouth is cold, Napoleon,” she said, “and why are you wearing my dressing gown?”

“I, ah, often find it hard to sleep afterwards,” Napoleon replied easily, kissing her nose. “It’s a little chilly on your balcony, but the view is great.”

Heidi smiled back. She reached out and pulled at the loosely-tied silk sash. “It’s not your colour,” she complained. “Take it off, please.”

“Your wish is my command.” Napoleon murmured, letting the robe slip to the floor as he climbed back into bed. He hoped he could stand the pace of a second round.


	6. Somewhere in the Caucasus Mountains

The train carriage swayed and rocked. The creeping chill froze Illya’s bones to the marrow and the open window let in an icy blast. He wished he could close it but his limbs were numb, paralysed with cold and he could not move. The train gathered speed and the rocking of the carriage intensified, slamming Illya’s body back and forth against the carriage wall.

Illya opened his eyes. The bumping and jolting continued as his unconscious companion thrashed against him under the blankets and furs, shivering violently. Illya tightened his grip on her.

“Keep still!” he growled in her ear to no avail. Cursing under his breath, Illya rolled on top of her, his weight advantage pinning her to the mattress. He gathered the scattered bedclothes and tucked the blankets firmly around her against the intense cold of the hut. The fire must have gone out or at least burned low. _I didn’t mean to sleep – it was foolish; I might never have woken…_

Illya tried to shake the lassitude out of his head. He sat up and rubbed his eyes, blinking against the dark, then edged himself carefully away from the warmth. The wind howled and raged behind the door and the frozen floor burned his bare feet. He groped for his socks then remembered hanging them over the stove. The promise of warm, dry wool propelled him onward and he was unable to suppress a groan of exquisite agony as the sharp needles of returning blood filtered down to his icy toes. 

The stove was still more or less alight, although that would not be the case for very much longer if he did not make shift very swiftly. Illya sighed inwardly. He hauled his still-damp outerwear back on, laced up his boots and braced himself to tackle another trip to the wood store.

On his return, he checked on his companion. The woman was still unconscious but her skin temperature was no longer that of a corpse. At least, Illya thought this was likely the case but the intense cold had eaten into his hands again and he doubted his ability to discriminate accurately. He piled fuel on the waning fire and stirred it into a decent blaze. He set more snow to melt in the cookpot and rooted around in the cupboards in search of something drinkable. A few minutes later, he emerged triumphant with a pot (tea or coffee, he was not entirely certain), a faded box containing tea leaves and – wonder of wonders – a half-full bottle of coffee essence. He also found some sugar at the rear of a dusty bottom shelf. Taking this latest discovery along with the sealed cans and bottles he had noticed earlier, Illya reckoned that they were not in imminent danger of starvation. He sat back on his heels, feeling a twist of tension unknot inside him; the odds on their survival were improving.

Illya was so absorbed in his excavations that the woman’s return to consciousness completely escaped him until he turned to check on her once again. He found himself the subject of a disconcertingly level gaze from eyes so dark they were almost black.

“Thank you,” the woman said. Her voice was husky. She swallowed and tried again. “Thank you, ah, for sparing my life,” she whispered.

“You are very welcome,” Illya murmured in response. 

The woman’s body suddenly shook in a bout of convulsive shivering. She burrowed clumsily into the bed covers and quivered, clenching her teeth against the chattering. Illya held up a mug in an unspoken question and the woman nodded assent, clenching her teeth.

Some little time later, Illya brought a mug of lukewarm, over-sweetened tea to the bed and helped the woman sit up with an arm behind her back. She reached for the cup but he batted her nerveless hands away and pressed the rim to her lips, bracing the back of her head with his other hand. She jolted, grimacing as the warm liquid scalded her mouth, and allowed him a rueful smile.

The woman managed about half of her drink before sinking back into the pillows in exhaustion. She eyed Illya silently, her intelligent dark eyes vivid against the lightness of her corn coloured hair. Illya, for his part, returned her scrutiny with interest, perfectly content to preserve the silence. 

“My English is quite good enough for conversation,” the woman remarked at length, “although I think that yours is very much more, ah, _idiomatic_.” Her mouth quirked in a small smile.

Illya tilted his head, listening to the cadence of her speech, the deep vowels and the forward consonants. He nodded. 

“We can speak in English or in your native Russian, if you prefer,” he replied. “It makes little difference to me as I also am fluent in both.”

The woman allowed her smile to broaden showing very white, even teeth. She inclined her head graciously and sat up with effort, reaching once again for the neglected tea. She let out a gusty sigh, wrapping her hands gratefully around the warm porcelain.

“You should probably have left me to die, you know.” Her tone was light, almost conversational, and she sipped her tea with composure. “You could have returned later to search my corpse. I would have done so in your position.”

Illya shook his head. “The blizzard would have made finding your body very difficult.” 

The woman gave a cracked laugh and shook her head. “As if an operative of your obvious calibre could not have found some way of marking the spot,” she chided.

Illya shrugged. “There was no reason not to attempt to save you.” He did not return her smile. “You were unconscious and no immediate threat. And in any case, I abhor waste of life.”

She raised a sardonic eyebrow. “Then you are clearly in the wrong line of work,” she shot back. “The job of assassin is probably not a good career choice for someone with such high principles.”

Illya looked at her with interest. “Not at all,” he contradicted. “There is justification. I am not simply a killer for hire.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Neither am I,” she drawled, “but there will always be those who need killing, and the world will always want people like us to do the job. I am very good at what I do and so also are you. However, when you take a life, do you not feel some responsibility for your action? Call it karma if you will, but surely there has to be some engagement with the job; some understanding of motives, some agreement with them? Or do you think it reason enough simply to obey your masters?”

Illya considered this for a few moments. “If my calling had been for the preservation of a man’s soul, I would have joined the priesthood,” he replied tersely. “My job is to carry out my mission as best I know how with minimal collateral damage. However, I will not shrink from taking life should the situation arise.” 

Illya leaned into the woman’s space, his expression serious. “You, however, killed my asset for no better reason than to keep his discoveries out of UNCLE’s hands.” His index finger jabbed emphatically. “Are you telling me you can make peace with your conscience over that?”

The woman nodded without hesitation. “Certainly I can. In fact, Ernst Mengele was good example of someone who very badly needed killing.”

Illya frowned. “The man was a scientist,” he argued, “not a soldier or a spy or anything even THRUSH could take exception to. He was a doctor who spent his life in medical research for the benefit of mankind. When his wife was arrested in 1943 and sent to Buchenwald for her Jewish heritage, Ernst refused to leave her, and he only survived the experience because he managed to hold out until the Americans liberated the camp two years later. Even so, his wife was not so lucky; she died within months of their internment.”

Illya drew breath to continue. “This is a man you consider better dead?” He shook his head in puzzlement. “Who knows what scientific advances Ernst Mengele could have achieved had he been allowed to live, and yet you consider his death to be a good thing?”

Illya was rather surprised to hear himself defend his late and largely unlamented charge with such fervour. At the back of his mind lurked an insidious little wisp of guilt that in the comparatively short time of their acquaintance, he had developed so intense a personal dislike for the man.

The woman stared at Illya for a long moment. “Is that what UNCLE told you?” she said slowly.

Illya shook his head, mystified. “I don't understand you,” he grated.

The woman was silent for a moment, her gaze burning into him. Then she folded her legs under her and sat up in the bed, leaning towards him. Her face was thoughtful and intent.

“They told you he was philanthropist, yes?” Her voice was very quiet. “All-round hero, good guy, whiter than white? Tell me, Mister Assassin-With-Conscience, and tell me honestly: what did you think of him? How did you take to him in your brief acquaintance, eh? Did you like him? Was he pleasant man, genuinely good person with the good of mankind at heart? Well?”

“I fail to see the relevance…”

“Pah!” The woman made a vigorous chopping motion with her right hand. “Spare me your professional deflection; we both had same training. Now, answer my question!”

Illya stared. “I only knew him for a few hours,” he back-pedalled, “and l do not think that I can make an unqualified judgment on that basis.”

The woman smiled without humour and nodded. “That tells me all I need to know about you and about your precious UNCLE. You will make deal with _devil_ if spoils are rich enough!” She turned her back on him and lay down again on her side, pulling the bedclothes over her shoulders. 

“At least in this situation, I am nominally on the side of the angels,” Illya remarked, stung, “which is more than you can claim.”

The woman gave an impatient sigh and twisted so that she could regard him over one shoulder. “Indeed.” The word was crisp. “But things are rarely so black and white, and angels come in all shapes and sizes.”

Illya shook his head. “I find it simpler to leave philosophical argument to my superiors,” he replied, “especially in circumstances such as these.”

The woman’s sudden laughter made him blink in surprise. He glared, somewhat affronted, as she rolled onto her front and favoured him with a twisted grin.

“Simpler?” she repeated. 

To his chagrin, Illya felt his face heat. He looked away. “I meant merely that policy is not in my purview,” he muttered. To his relief, she chose not to pursue the matter.

“Well,” she said after a moment, falsely bright, “Now that pleasantries are dispensed with, what do you plan to do with me after blizzard dies down?”

Illya raised an eyebrow at the abrupt change of subject and replied cautiously. “What makes you think I have any plans regarding you at all?”

The woman gave him a very old-fashioned look. “Please,” she replied in a patronising tone that set his hackles rising. “Try not to underestimate me simply because I am woman. The brain in my head is first-class, despite colour of my hair,” She tilted her head towards Illya’s own blonde mane with an arch lift of an eyebrow, “And my training has been most comprehensive.” 

Illya maintained his deadpan look of polite enquiry.

“Very well then,” the woman continued, manoeuvring until she was sitting cross-legged under the blankets, “I will go first. You work for UNCLE. You were on extraction mission which went badly but you believe it is still possible to salvage something worthwhile from the wreckage. You believe I took something relevant from Mengele after I killed him and you mean to recover it, yes?”

Illya narrowed his eyes. “Hypothetically speaking,” he ventured, “if such a set of circumstances did exist, then certainly I would be looking for whatever it is that you currently possess.”

“And you haven’t found it yet.” Her eyes twinkled. “You searched me, I think, before you brought me back here?” A muscle twitched in Illya’s jaw and the woman nodded to herself. “And the fact that you found nothing is the reason I am here in this cabin and not frozen corpse out there in ravine. In fact, it is only thing keeping me alive, and we both know it.”

Illya shook his head. “No,” he replied. “Actually, _I’m_ the only thing keeping you alive at present. And the possibility of freezing to death in this god-forsaken location is more of a threat to your continued health than anything I could do to you.”

The woman returned Illya’s level gaze as if searching for truth in his expression. Whatever she found there seemed to satisfy her.

Illya turned away from her disconcerting scrutiny on the pretext of ransacking cupboards only cursorily investigated earlier. The labels had perished through age and damp until they were hardly legible, but he managed to find cans of carrots, peas and beans, all of which he punctured efficiently with his Swiss army knife and emptied together into the cookpot to make a kind of stew. The hard biscuit he soaked in hot water until it softened enough to make a kind of mealy mush acceptable as a potato substitute. It wasn’t much but it would keep them alive, and the woman was apparently experienced enough in the ways of an itinerant to appreciate the value and keep quiet about the quality.

Illya served the hot stew in bowls. The woman ate quickly and efficiently, sitting up in the bed with the blankets cocooned around her. 

“You know,” she mused, pausing for a moment, spoon suspended over her meal, “I remember making stew like this some little time ago. I was on an assignment in…” 

She stopped abruptly and shook her head. “Well,” she continued, smiling wryly, “never mind where I was and what I was doing. I put together something very close to what you have here and I made mistake of asking my, ah, _colleague_ what he thought of it. Instead of opinion, he gave me useful cooking advice. When I’ve made it since, it has been better.”

“Why worry?” Illya replied, not at all put out. “Food is food, particularly when you’re on a mission. It’s meant as fuel not a gourmet experience.”

“Very true,” she agreed, “but surely it is better to make fuel taste good if you can, yes?”

Illya looked down at the colourless mush and back up at his companion. Her eyes were brimming with laughter; he shook his head and allowed himself to smile.

“I think perhaps you have a point,” he conceded. He pointed his fork at her. “Tomorrow you make dinner.”

“Very well.” Her smile turned rueful and then faded altogether. She prodded at her stew thoughtfully.

Illya paused in his eating. “What?” he asked. “Did I say something?”

She shook her head. “Is nothing,” she replied. “Is just… well, I was about to talk about a mission.” She laughed. “Even though we’re more or less in same business, we can’t talk.”

Illya considered this. “Whilst I would hesitate to describe THRUSH and UNCLE as ‘the same business’,” he said judiciously, “if you are referring to the business of spying, sadly ‘twas ever thus.”

The woman’s eyes widened comically. “Oh, are you spy? Truly?” Her lips twitched with mischief. 

Illya snorted. “If I’m not, then you’ve been eating lunch with a PE teacher from Moscow,” he responded drily. He took another bite of biscuit mush.

“Yes.” The woman nodded. “Stepan Ivanovitch Nicholaiev, PE teacher and ski enthusiast. Lives in a Kruschev flat in central Moscow, has full-time teaching job in secondary school and coaches skiing to wealthy ex-patriots during holidays to make ends meet.”

She smiled and looked down into her hands for a moment. “He’s unmarried but carries in his wallet colour photograph of very pretty brunette with _“Vsya moya lyubov', Anna”_ handwritten on back,” she continued. “He could not afford, on teacher’s salary, to pursue his love of skiing in more fashionable, European resort, so he comes instead to Caucasus Mountains in hopes that one day he might find a smooth, flawless piste amongst the many rough slopes.”

Illya rolled his eyes and gave a huff of ironic laughter. He placed his spoon carefully in the now empty bowl.

“And here was I thinking that Mikhail’s treachery stopped short at ratting me out to THRUSH,” he said with a smile he did not feel. “I assume my room at the Voksol was searched? I congratulate you on a very professional job; I suspected nothing.”

“Why thank you!” The woman inclined her head with a mischievous little smile. “I know who you really are, of course. You’re the legendary Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin. Born in Ukraine but citizen of the world who speaks English like a native but plays jazz like an American. You have Bachelor’s degree in physics from University of Georgia and Master’s from Sorbonne in Paris where you also trained to Olympic level in gymnastics. You have Doctorate from Cambridge, England in quantum mechanics, you take your coffee black and your tea English style. You are expert in munitions and explosives, crack shot, mechanic, qualified pilot – oh, the list is endless! We also know that you were once an officer in Russian Navy, but whether you are now attached to Soviet military intelligence or KGB, THRUSH is not entirely certain.”

Her smile broadened revealing even, white teeth. “Yours is most requested visual at THRUSH Central,” she told him. “You are so photogenic that I think certain members of secretarial staff would display enlarged copy of your security photograph on wall of typing pool, if they thought they could do so without reprisals. Purely for, uh, motivational purposes, of course.”

If she had hoped to rattle him with that little anecdote, Illya thought, she was sorely mistaken. He was only too aware of the propensity for THRUSH females to attach themselves to him, usually for purposes hazardous to his long-term health. Inwardly, he had to admit to some considerable surprise, not only at the extent of his THRUSH dossier but also the amount of information the woman had taken the time to commit to memory.

“Indeed.” Illya summoned his poker face. “And does the reality match up to the image?”

One side of the woman’s mouth curved upwards in a half smile. “As the British say,” she replied, “that would be telling.” 

Illya raised his eyebrows. “Whereas you yourself prefer a lower profile,” he volleyed swiftly. “However, if you imagine that you have managed to keep your light under a bushel, think again, _Miss Nataliya Annushkin Ivanova.”_

The woman started at the name, then narrowed her eyes. “How did…” she began then deliberately clamped her lips closed.

“Born in Moscow to first generation Ukrainian immigrants,” Illya continued impassively. “Trained with the Bolshoi Ballet for three years. You quit to attend Oxford University.” 

“I grew too tall,” Ivanova muttered.

“First degree in European languages with a Masters in European Studies,” Illya continued. “Black Belt in karate; silver medallist in fencing 1960 Olympic Games. You are a sharpshooter, rally driver and the first woman to scale the west peak of Mount Elbrus from the south-west side, to name but a few of your achievements. You are an accomplished violinist, although nowadays you only use your skills for business, not pleasure. During a six-month assignment in Kiev, you developed a taste for my country’s national alcohol, _horilka_ which you prefer to vodka. Yes, you are well known to us at UNCLE, Miss Ivanova.”

The woman blew out a surprised breath and blinked. “I admit, I’m surprised you have so much background information,” she remarked. “I am just one of many young hopefuls, Mr Kuryakin. There is nothing special about me.”

Illya gave a faint snort. “You are too modest,” he replied. “You came to our notice some time ago. You’re quite a recent recruit to THRUSH, aren’t you? And the KGB does not like to lose its operatives, particularly ones on whose training they have spent so much time and expense.”

Ivanova shrugged. “What can I say?” she countered. “That THRUSH made a better offer? That I was tired of being used for my face and body rather than my skills and training? That I had issues with being whored out at whim of my superior?”

Illya went very still; his eyes hardened. “Miss Ivanova,” he said quietly. “The KGB does not routinely require that kind of service from its female operatives. True, it does sanction honey trap operations, but recruitment for these missions is carried out amongst professional sex workers – men and women who already know the score. Their training and usage is entirely separate from intelligence agents. I have never heard of a situation where a conventionally trained female operative was unwillingly assigned to such work. It would be judged a waste of resources.”

What Illya did not say was that the KGB’s practice of training all personable female operatives in seduction had been discontinued, not through any sense of justice or fair play but through sheer pragmatism: in brief, the sex workers did it better.

Ivanova huffed derisively. “That’s all you know,” was the flat reply, “and besides, I was not referring to missions or assignments.”

“If not missions, then what?” Illya frowned, puzzled.

Ivanova lowered her eyes. 

“Well?” Illya pushed, impatient. “Can you give me anything to back up your allegations?”

Ivanova did not respond, merely shook her head silently. Illya ran an index finger over his bottom lip, deep in thought. His eyes widened and he leaned forward, gaze fixed on the woman’s bowed head.

“Are you telling me that services of this nature were required of you outside of your professional remit?” he asked in a softer voice. When she did not reply immediately, he put a gentle finger under her chin and lifted it to make her reluctantly meet his eyes.

“Nataliya?” he said softly, urgently. “What did they make you do? Tell me.”

Ivanova jerked her chin away from his grasp. An awkward silence was broken at length by her impatient sigh.

“Gregor Ivanovitch Petrov.” Ivanova spat the syllables as though they tasted foul. “You have, of course, heard of him. He was close to Alexander Shelepin when Shelepin was Director of KGB. Some people expected Petrov to take over as leader when Shelepin was promoted to Politburo. However, job was given to Vladimir Semichastny, but it was common knowledge that Kruschev would have appointed Petrov. If he had been able to find him.” 

Ivanova’s smile was brittle; she shivered. “He was horrible man.” She shook herself briefly.

“’Was’?” Illya queried.

“Was,” Ivanova confirmed.

Illya frowned. “I have heard nothing of this,” he told her, “not from any of my sources.”

Ivanova thinned her lips. “As you say,” she intoned, “KGB does not like to lose its people. Some, uh, evidence was found that Petrov was approached by MI5.” She gave Illya a smile that did not reach her eyes. “He disappeared shortly after and when no trace of him could be found, the whole affair was, as you would say in America, hushed up.” 

Illya nodded, lowering his eyes. “The Soviet Government does not advertise its failures either,” Illya muttered. He looked back at the woman. 

“What really happened?” Illya asked, although he had a nasty feeling that he already knew.

Ivanova quirked an eyebrow. “His body was disposed of by night by way of Moskva River,” she replied composedly. “It has never been recovered.”

Illya frowned. “How do you know this?” he demanded.

Ivanova stared him straight in the eyes and smiled. “I know because I put it there,” she replied, “after I fired both barrels of shotgun into his face. Not many people walk away from that. It was messy and inconvenient, but I needed to disguise his identity.” Her tone was coolly indifferent.

“It would seem that you succeeded,” Illya responded.

“Indeed.” Ivanova nodded. “Personally, I would prefer to see him serve time in one of Moscow’s prisons,” she continued thoughtfully, “alongside some of our more violent offenders. Many high security prisoners are, uh, sensitive about rapists and pederasts. However, who would have believed me, or indeed any of the other girls, and boys, he violated in the name of Mother Russia? There was no proof it was not consensual despite the violence…” she paused for a moment to swallow, her throat bobbing convulsively, “…despite what he did to us…did to me.” She sat still gazing sightlessly into her lap.

There was a long silence, broken only when Illya cleared his throat delicately.

“So,” he began again. “THRUSH?”

Ivanova appeared to gather herself. She raised her eyebrows. “Why not?” she replied. “They had openings for skilled agents. In my position, I had very few options.”

“And you never thought of coming to UNCLE?” Illya asked gently.

Ivanova stared at him speechlessly then huffed a brief, humourless laugh.

“Illya, I murdered my superior in cold blood,” she said with deliberate emphasis. “Look at yourself! You are Alexander Waverly’s protégé; his first experiment in _razryadka,_ in détente. If your position is politically precarious, imagine what mine would be. If I had come to him, Waverley would have listened politely to my story, locked me in holding cell and then put me on plane straight back to Moscow before I could draw breath. He would have had no choice, and you know it!”

Illya looked away, his mouth twisting. He said nothing.


	7. Progress, of a Sort

Napoleon thought he was looking pretty darned good. In fact, he reckoned he was looking positively outstanding for breakfast at the crack of dawn following major jetlag, a full dinner and several hours’ extreme physical activity, set off against a mere two hours’ sleep. Sure, his eyes were darkly circled but he had always been of the opinion that a little shadow merely served to add gravitas to his eternally youthful attractiveness. 

At any rate, Napoleon was certain his turnout was significantly better than that of his colleague. He watched with some trepidation as Daniella Caplan marched into the commissary and plunked herself down at his table with no ceremony whatsoever, face as black as thunder. A confused silence gradually eroded the twittering conversation of the three attractive junior agents Napoleon had persuaded to join him for his early repast.

“Ah, good morning, Daniella.” Napoleon rose to greet his fellow agent genially, oozing charm. “You must know Tina, Mitzi and Valerie; they’re all new to Section Three.” 

The girls smiled nervously. All three were unquestionably Napoleon’s type: leggy blondes with blue eyes and pleasing curves.

“May I offer you some toast?” Napoleon gestured politely to the laden table, easy smile fully in place.

Caplan stared at him disbelievingly. “Are you for real?” she snarled. She ripped viciously at a sugar packet and dumped the contents into her coffee, stirring it with unnecessary vigour.

Napoleon raised an eyebrow. “You should take it easy with that,” he told her, nodding at the cup. “Too much sugar is bad for you. Tooth decay is permanent, you know.”

Caplan’s glance was carefully expressionless but Napoleon felt every particle of unspoken ire. He inched a finger uneasily around his collar.

“That’s very true,” Caplan replied eventually, staring down into the depths of her mug, “and so’s a broken neck.”

The three rookie agents exchanged glances. The scrape of their chairs seemed unnaturally loud over the girls’ murmured excuses, and Napoleon graciously half-rose from his seat, the better to catch the rear elevation as they left. A certain wistful chagrin lingered in his expression as he reluctantly turned back to his disgruntled colleague.

“I’m getting the feeling that you are less than happy this fine, sunny morning,” Napoleon ventured.

Caplan fixed him with a glare. “Someone tossed my apartment last night,” she told him with no ceremony whatsoever. She narrowed her eyes. “I don’t suppose you’d know anything about that, huh?”

Napoleon gave her his best wide-eyed innocent look. “I’m very sorry to hear that, Daniella,” he replied earnestly, “but I’m afraid I can’t help you. I was out with Heidi last night; you saw us leave, don’t you remember?”

“Yeah, I remember,” Caplan replied sourly, “and don’t think that I didn’t check with Heidi already. She says you were with her last night. _All_ night.”

“Yes.” Napoleon gave a relaxed chuckle, hoping against hope that his game face was good enough. “I have to say I was pretty tired and still a bit jet-lagged. I must have just zonked out, ah, afterwards. Heidi is very… energetic.” He shook his head and smiled into her eyes.

Caplan shot him a look of such intense dislike that, had it been a knife, would have skewered him instantly to the wall. Napoleon winced involuntarily. Caplan picked up her coffee with dignity and stomped out of the commissary without a backward glance. 

Napoleon’s sunny smile soured; his cheeks ached. He glanced down at the remains of his breakfast and abruptly lost his appetite. He pushed the plate away with a sigh, adjusted his tie and left the commissary with a heavier tread than when he arrived. 

Walking down UNCLE Istanbul’s corridors towards Adem Osman’s office, Napoleon had the uneasy feeling that his actions the previous night may have been a trifle precipitate. Caplan was a top flight agent, albeit as yet of junior status, but she could also be a formidable enemy, and he was no further forward on what it was about her that set his internal radar pinging. Napoleon straightened his tie and sighed; what was done was done.

By lunchtime, Napoleon was on a plane. The UNCLE jet was _en route_ to Trabzon, a port on the Black Sea coast strategically placed for the occasional foray into currently disputed waters. It also helped that UNCLE had assets there, one of which was a small fishing boat with a co-operative captain and crew.

Napoleon exchanged his city suit for heavy-duty trousers, waterproof boots and a thick, oiled-wool sweater, darkening his already tanned complexion with dextrously applied boot-polish to give himself a swarthy look. His neatly-trimmed hair was a dead giveaway so he donned a flat cap, pulled well down, which had the added bonus of protection against the elements. 

As Napoleon stepped out onto the quay, Caplan materialised at his side. Napoleon glanced at her, then looked again.

“That’s… good camouflage,” Napoleon told her with a smile designed to cover his shock. He had grown used to Kuryakin’s facility with disguises; to find someone else equally adept had jolted him. 

For Caplan was every inch the young, inexperienced seaman; a gangly adolescent who had outgrown his body and moved awkwardly, still trying to find his sea legs. Her long red hair was concealed by a similar cap to Napoleon’s own and the lushness of her body hidden behind poorly-fitting baggy clothing too short in the arm and leg. Napoleon saluted her, his eyes respectful, but apart from one sharp glance, she ignored him. He sighed and leaped lightly onto the fishing boat.

The _Mavi Okyanus_ , or Blue Ocean, was a traditional wooden sailing vessel like so many others trawling the Black Sea waters. A little scruffy and in need of a coat of paint, the _Mavi_ had been ignored by many a police patrol over the years by virtue of its humble appearance and courteous, genuine-seeming crew. Had any official seen fit to dig deeper, they would have been quite surprised and probably very interested to discover a state of the art computerised navigation system in a carefully concealed part of the hold. The crew was an actual fishing team; they were also all UNCLE employees.

Napoleon’s experience with his own small sloop gave him sufficient knowledge to blend in, but to his surprise Caplan also turned out to be an accomplished seaman. They worked alongside in silence, acknowledging each other only in their smooth working co-operation. Napoleon found his tension levels rising as he still could not decide if, when the chips were well and truly down, he could actually afford to trust her.

A shout from the helm brought an end to Napoleon’s ruminations. He turned to Caplan eyebrows raised in query.

“A patrol,” she told him with a shrug. “Russian by the looks of it. I’m not too surprised; we’re quite a way off the beaten track for vessels out of Trabzon.”

“What will they do?” Napoleon asked.

“They’ll talk to the Captain,” Caplan replied. “He’ll complain about his navigator’s drinking – Cenap does a halfway decent impression – and he’ll turn the boat around. He’ll then hit the Georgian coast and work his way up to Sochi, and get us to the extraction point that way. He has several potential routes up his sleeve.”

Napoleon watched the as the Russian craft bore down upon the small fishing boat. There were six officers aboard that he could see and all were armed with automatic weapons. If he were discovered, it could only go badly for everyone.

Caplan managed to make herself completely invisible and earned Napoleon’s grudging respect as a result. Napoleon’s own disguise was reasonably convincing at a distance, and he had at least some seafaring experience. However, he told himself, there was a world of difference between the hands of a hobbyist and those of a professional seaman. Napoleon kept his head down and worked on his own brand of invisibility.

The exchange was brief and voluble. The captain protested loudly, clearly maintaining that he was within his rights to fish in these waters. The Russian official gestured with his pistol, clearly ordering the captain to heave to. The exchange grew heated and Napoleon glanced about him uneasily, thinking about their weapons cache below decks. He felt a small tug at his sleeve.

“Easy,” Caplan murmured into his ear. “It’s all posturing. They know each other, they’ve been playing this scene on and off for years. Stand easy, soldier.”

Napoleon felt rather than saw her smile. However, he did not allow himself to relax his vigilance until the Russian vessel had disappeared into the distance.

The Captain spat in guttural Turkish as he hove to and changed course. Napoleon saw Caplan’s mobile mouth twitch in amusement and he tapped her arm for attention.

“I’m sorry, my Turkish is on a par with my Azerbaijani,” he said with a smile, “meaning almost non-existent. I take it our skipper is not a happy camper?”

“That’s putting it mildly,” the girl replied. “I thought I knew most Turkish cuss words, but I learned some new ones today!” 

Napoleon smiled at her. “I take it he doesn’t want to sail the Georgian coast?” he ventured.

Caplan’s expression quickly sobered. “Some of his fellow fisherman have lost craft and crew members there in recent times,” she replied, “apparently to Russian naval vessels. Other boats have simply disappeared without trace.”

Napoleon nodded. “And the Russians have denied all knowledge, I take it?” he replied.

“Understandably,” Caplan replied, “as despite all evidence to the contrary, we suspect that the blame lies squarely with our Feathered Friends.”

“And our esteemed Captain does not want to take the risk?” Napoleon nodded. “I can understand his reluctance,” he agreed.

Caplan narrowed her eyes and frowned. “You’d better get some rest,” she told Napoleon decisively. “Haluk and Teylan will join you in the berth. Captain Erdem, Cenap and I will take the first watch. It would have been 12 hours to Sochi; now it’s going to take rather longer.”

Napoleon harboured the suspicion that she had divided the team in this way to make sure she had as little contact with him as possible. He sighed but went below obediently followed by the other two crewmembers. 

Having established that his colleagues spoke no English and his Turkish being sparse, Napoleon gave up on any socialising and simply lay on his cramped bunk, mulling over the mission in his head. At check-in time, he excused himself, climbed back on deck and went aft to use his communicator. Mr Waverley was too busy to talk to him, Kuryakin had missed his fourth check-in and Sam was still working on the information Napoleon had requested. Napoleon sighed and capped his communicator, unsatisfied; so far the mission was moving pretty slowly.

Caplan shook him awake to full dark and pushed him peremptorily out of the berth, quickly taking his place in the warm bedding. She was asleep in moments. Sticky-eyed and strangely disoriented, Napoleon made his groggy way above and to the helm. Imperturbable as ever, Captain Erdem glowered blackly out over the waters as if the gentle swell were likely suddenly to turn on him. By means of his own fractured Turkish and some sign language, Napoleon learned that the going was good and they would hit the Georgian coast in two hours or so. Despite this, Erdem was not a happy man. With some further effort, Napoleon learned that the incidents of piracy in the area they would be traversing had been brutal and efficient, leaving no witnesses to tell tales. In the same breath, Erdem cursed both THRUSH and the Russian patrol; had they not happened upon the latter, they would not be skulking these waters in fear of the former. Napoleon merely nodded thoughtfully in reply; all they could do was wait.

They ran into the THRUSH boat almost by accident. On reflection, Napoleon was astonished that the other craft had managed to get so close without tripping any of the sophisticated navigation alarms. However, at the time he was too busy defending the _Mavi_ and trying to enable a tactical retreat to devote much thinking time to the kind of jamming devices THRUSH was currently using.

The motor launch appeared out of the pre-dawn mist and opened fire without warning. Napoleon made a dash for the helm and activated the on board searchlights, temporarily blinding their enemies. He caught sight of the orange THRUSH flag flying from the main mast and shook his head at the blasé arrogance. 

“Napoleon!” 

He turned towards the call and reflexively caught the weapon tossed at him. It was his UNCLE Special; Caplan had assembled it along with her own and brought both up from the hold. He opened his mouth to thank her and flinched away suddenly as the THRUSH launch activated its own searchlights.

“No time for subtlety now!” Caplan announced grimly, settling her carbine at her shoulder and casually taking out the THRUSH lights with a couple of well-spaced shots.

Feeling left out, Napoleon ran for cover and started to lay down fire in short bursts, hoping to keep the enemy at bay long enough for the Captain to take evasive action. He felt the boat heave to as the Captain struggled to tack from starboard to port.

“Use the engines!” Napoleon found himself muttering as he squinted into the darkness, trying to pick off unwary THRUSH marksmen. He greeted the knowledge that the _Mavi_ was finally pulling away from the THRUSH boat with great relief.

“You okay, Caplan?” Napoleon shouted when they were almost out of range.

“Fit as a fiddle,” she replied, her expression chagrined, “but I don’t think I can say the same for Erdem.”

The Captain was still clinging stubbornly to the helm, but one arm hung useless and his face was haggard.

“Cenap, take the wheel,” Caplan snapped, easing the injured man onto the floor of the wheelhouse. The navigator jumped to obey and Napoleon rested the captain’s torso against the wall as he gently cut away the remains of his jacket with his boot knife.

“Straight in and out,” he told Caplan who was rooting around for the First Aid box. “Didn’t touch anything in between. Not much more than a graze but it’s going to hurt.”

The First Aid box was rather more comprehensive than one would expect to find on a lowly small fishing boat. Napoleon cleaned and dressed the wound, gave Erdem a shot of broad spectrum antibiotics then immobilised the man’s arm against his chest.

“I think Cenap is going to have to stay at the wheel, Captain,” Napoleon said regretfully. He was unwilling for them to be a man down, but facts were facts. Caplan translated; Captain Erdem glared then spat deliberately at Napoleon’s feet before letting loose a torrent of incomprehensible Turkish.

“What did he say?” Napoleon asked, bewildered. 

“He said no, thank you,” Caplan replied, lips twitching, “and he said you are a man without honour.”

“That’s fighting talk,” Napoleon told her, frowning at the Captain; Erdem met Napoleon’s glare with every appearance of supreme indifference.

Caplan nodded. “Exactly,” she replied, “and that’s precisely what he’s gonna do, whether you like it or not.”

The Captain clambered to his feet, grey-faced but as near to a going concern as possible for a man with an inch diameter hole in his shoulder. Erdem glowered contemptuously at Napoleon who in turn raised his hands palms outward in a peaceable gesture and backed away.

"Okay, it's your funeral," Napoleon muttered, giving it up as a lost cause. He went aft for some privacy to make his scheduled check-in, uncapping his communicator as he did so. Caplan spared him a swift backward glance then joined the rest of the crew in the rigging to ensure that the boat stayed afloat.

 

“That’s the last of them.”

Illya sat back on his heels and surveyed the cupboard, emptied of its contents which now stood in neat rows on the table.

“Hmm.” Ivanova examined the labels critically. “We have mostly canned vegetables, beans and pulses with the odd tin of peaches or plums,” she told him. “There is a jar of oatmeal and some dried milk powder which we can sweeten with some of this jam. The sugar has crystallised but that hardly matters.”

Illya sniffed. “ _Kasha_ doesn’t need sweetening,” he told her. “It is a wholesome and flavoursome porridge and doesn’t need to be adulterated. Did you know, the Scots serve porridge with salt?”

“Ugh!” Ivanova made a face. “I’ll stick to the jam, thank you,”

“There’s quite a stack of wood outside for the fire, “Illya put in, rising to his feet and dusting off his hands, “and over in the corner there’s a box of candles, enough to last for a couple of months with judicious use. Not that we will need all of them.”

Ivanova remained silent. Illya moved over to the table, mentally cataloguing the contents. “There’s tea and coffee,” he remarked.

“And there’s this,” Ivanova told him, lifting an anonymous bottle of clear liquid, eyes dancing.

“Yes,” Illya agreed with a smile. “You know, Nataliya, I believe that, by an extraordinary coincidence, what you have there is _horilka,_ your favourite tipple and the national drink of my own people.”

“I think so too,” she smiled back, “although we have nothing to mix it with.”

“Bah!” Illya shook his head, amused. “Only weaklings and old women have to dilute it.”

“Indeed.” Ivanova had broken the seal and was cautiously inhaling the contents. She raised her eyebrows at the fumes and turned her head away.

“This was clearly a very good year,” she remarked, re-corking the bottle. “We will save it for after dinner.”

Illya reached for his pack and removed a handful of paper-wrapped candy bars. Ivanova reached for one curiously.

“Space Food Sticks?” she read, looking up at him enquiringly.

Illya shrugged. “They were developed for the NASA space program, apparently,” he replied, “but now you can buy them everywhere in America.”

Ivanova blinked and replaced the bar on the table top. She shook her head. “Russian astronauts do not eat candy,” she said.

“No, but we can use these for sustenance on the move once the snow dies down enough for us to travel,” Illya explained before he had thought it through.

Ivanova turned expressionless eyes on him then turned to root in her own pack, coming up with a tin half full of a kind of powder labelled “пищевой многоцелевой”.

Illya turned the can over in his hands curiously. “I haven’t seen this before,” he said.

“That shows how long you’ve been away from the Motherland,” Ivanova shot back but without any real animosity. “It’s an additive which increases the protein and calorific value of any meal. It’s quite useful in the field.”

Illya nodded. “I think it must be something in the nature of the Multi-Purpose Food which is all the rage with the Americans currently,” he said, handing the tin back to her. “They stockpile it along with sealed cans of water. They think it will keep them alive in the event of a nuclear strike.” He gave a short laugh. “If it ever comes to that, I think those closest to the fireball will be the lucky ones.”

Ivanova made a moue of distaste. “They stole it from us,” she complained, setting the tin on the table. “The Americans, they steal everything from us.”

“True,” Illya replied, “but we steal from them when we can, so it all works out in the end. Well, more or less.”

Ivanova gave him an old fashioned look. He turned away to hide his smile, surveying the small collection of cans, bottles and packets which made up the sum total of their food supply. He estimated that, with care, they could make their supplies last for a week or so. The snow should have long abated by then, surely.

Illya was so deep in thought that he failed to hear Ivanova’s quiet question.

“I’m sorry.” He shook his head. “I was... preoccupied. What was that?”

“I said, what made you choose to work for UNCLE, Mr Kuryakin?” she repeated.

He exhaled in a huff and smiled. “Illya, please,” he replied, “after all, it seems absurd to stand on ceremony when we are sharing a bed.” 

Ivanova smiled and bowed her head. “Illya, then,” she agreed.

Illya stroked his bottom lip with an index finger as he considered her question. “Where I was before, I went where I was told to go and did what I was instructed to do,” he replied. “I was instructed to work for UNCLE, so I got on a plane and went to America. It is not so different a job; I just get out more than I used to. Oh, and the pay is slightly better.”

Ivanova smiled faintly. “So you are where you landed, yes?” she said. “How do you see your future?”

“All UNCLE agents are expendable for the sake of the common good,” Illya told her. “Realistically, I don’t see myself reaching retirement age, unless I am exceptionally lucky.”

Ivanova gave a faint laugh. “You see?” she told him. “We are not so far apart after all. They talk to us in THRUSH about a brave new world; a world where peace is universal, the status quo reigns and those who would threaten it are – removed.”

“Permanently,” Illya put in, “as is anyone who stands in their way. Nataliya, you are an intelligent woman. You don’t really believe their propaganda, do you?”

“Of course not!” Ivanova looked insulted at the very notion. “But you have to admit, what they offer is exceedingly attractive for a woman such as myself, especially as the life expectancy is no more or less than the KGB would have offered me had I not made myself unemployable to them. Where else could I go? A low-level operative, now a criminal amongst my own people, a legitimate target and a traitor. As a defector, I would not be worth the bother – the CIA would laugh at me. THRUSH offered me the chance to utilise my hard-won skills, to travel the world, to further a cause…”

“A cause, yes,” Illya interrupted, “That of a two-party system – the masters and the slaves, as my partner aptly describes it.”

Ivanova smiled. “Ah, yes,” she said. “The formidable Napoleon Solo. His exploits are the stuff of legend, you know. He is much talked about by my female colleagues – more so even than you, Illya.”

Illya smiled sardonically. “Yes,” he replied, “Napoleon does have something of a reputation.”

“As a – how do the Americans call it? – lady-killer?” Ivanova commented. “Rather fitting considering the low survival rate amongst his conquests.”

“Napoleon is an equal opportunity assassin,” Illya returned drily, “and a man of considerable skill in the area of “sweet talk”. I am certain he would be in his element in the current situation, despite his dislike of cold weather. I, by contrast, have no illusions as to the extent of my persuasive powers. Still, regretfully I am obligated to ask you once again. What did you take from Ernst Mengele’s waist pack and where have you hidden it? It would be better for you to come clean over this, believe me.”

Ivanova smiled but shook her head. “Illya,” she said, “you really are very pretty but you could benefit from some lessons in what the Americans call the soft-sell. Please – you know better than this.”

Illya felt his cheeks flush and quickly turned his head away. “I had to try,” he replied. “Grant me that.”

“I would happily grant you many things,” Ivanova replied with a twinkle, “but there are limits. Yes, you had to try,” she agreed, “and you will continue to try, I have little doubt of that. But next time, use a little subtlety, yes?”

Silence fell for a few moments as Illya cast about for a change of subject. His eyebrows came together in a slight frown and he turned back towards Ivanova with a new interest.

“Nataliya,” he began, “you mentioned that Mengele was someone you felt deserved death.”

“No, I did not,” Ivanova replied composedly. “I make no judgment on the worth of his soul, Illya; my opinion is based entirely on my own reading of the situation. The man needed removing from the planet permanently, and my gun was the instrument whereby his elimination was achieved.”

Illya’s frown deepened. “But Mengele was a doctor, a healer,” he protested, “Granted, he wasn’t the most approachable of people nor the best company I have ever spent a long evening with, but his history speaks for him. Whatever lies THRUSH fed you about this man, he was hardly the usual assassin’s mark, Nataliya.”

Ivanova nodded. “That is very true,” she replied, “and believe me, I do not blame you for holding me responsible for the failure of your mission. I also forgive you for your arrogance.”

Illya frowned. “Excuse me?” he replied.

“Yes, your arrogance, Illya,” Ivanova replied. “Your blithe assumption that everything my organisation tells me is untrue simply because they have a different agenda from yours, and that your own knowledge is superior to my own in every way because UNCLE is good and THRUSH is evil!”

Ivanova moved forward in her seat so that she was leaning into Illya’s personal space, her expression and body language very serious.

“Illya,” she continued earnestly, “Ernst Mengele was indeed brother to Josef, both in blood and in inclination. They met at Buchenwald.”

Illya’s eyebrows almost disappeared into his hairline. “The concentration camp?” he demanded, “You’re sure? But how?”

Ivanova nodded. “Far from disowning him, Josef had been trying to find Ernst for some years,” she replied. “Ernst himself had no idea of his true paternity.”

Illya frowned. “How can you possibly know this?” he demanded. “Whatever or whoever your sources are, they cannot…”

Shaking her head, Ivanova reached out to place an index finger gently over his still working lips.

“Shhh!” she whispered. “Illya, you asked for this; now let me tell the story.”

Ivanova paused for a moment to compose herself, her face intent, gathering her thoughts.

“Just imagine the situation,” she began slowly. “There you are, a busy, contented family doctor in 1930s Germany, newly married to a woman of means, with a bright, secure future ahead of you. The political situation looks increasingly tense but this doesn’t concern you. Why should it? You are German through and through, you even look like the archetypical Aryan man.”

Illya smiled grimly. “It’s been said before.”

“Indeed.” Ivanova did not smile in return. “You bury your head in the sand. You close your eyes as one by one your friends and neighbours disappear in the night, never to return. Then one day, one terrible day, the knock comes on your door. To your horror, the SS have come for your wife; they have proof of her Jewish heritage. 

“Your wife begs you for protection but instead of trying to help, you turn your back on her. You claim you never knew. You tell them she lied to you – she said she was an orphan, the only child of a wealthy Bavarian merchant. You are innocent, you have been deceived. But your words fall on deaf ears; you have been deemed complicit in your wife’s “crime” of concealing her background. You are both sent away into forced labour while her origins are investigated.”

Ivanova sighed and continued. “You will not talk to your wife; you will not look at her or even acknowledge her existence. She betrayed you; it is down to her that your home, your career, your very life is threatened. That is your story and you will not be swayed. You find yourself sent to Buchenwald and your wife has the dubious honour of being among the first female prisoners to be received there.”

Illya stared. “Is this the truth?” he repeated.

Ivanova’s eyes were wide. She took his large hands in her smaller ones. “Let me finish,” she told him. “You may ask your questions later.”

Illya nodded stiffly; Ivanova inclined her head like a queen.

“You survive as best you can,” she continued. “You make such friendships as you are able with the SS officers who run the camp. After all, you aren’t one of these others, these Jewish animals; you’re one of the Chosen, a proper human being. The days run into weeks, into months, and you begin to despair of survival.”

Ivanova paused to gather her thoughts. She stared sightlessly into the fire for a few moments then drew breath to speak.

“And then one day a man arrives,” she continued. “He is clearly someone of importance, but that isn’t what compels your attention. It’s like looking into a mirror – or at least, it would have been eight months ago; the privations of Buchenwald have not been kind to you. It takes some little time but eventually the man’s eyes land upon you and they narrow in a kind of recognition. Imagine the relief! Not only are you removed from the torture of everyday survival, you are separated out from those dregs whose company you had to endure all through this time. You are put back in your rightful place, back with your rightful people.”

Illya nodded impatiently. “Yes, yes,” he replied. “All anecdotal evidence, I suppose, but so far, you’re not actually adding anything concrete to his story and all you have said is merely speculation.”

Ivanova shook her head. “Not speculation,” she insisted. “I have documentary proof. Now be patient and listen. You are made Chief Medical Officer of Buchenwald. You are given nice quarters, an office and a laboratory where you find you are expected to carry out “experimental research” for the benefit of the Third Reich. Your brother Josef eagerly shares details of his work in Auschwitz and you begin similar processes of your own. After all, there are plenty of experimental subjects available right on your doorstep as it were, of all ages and degrees of health. Once you have wrung the maximum agony and suffering out of them, they can simply be taken away by your minions. A bullet in the back of the head and burial in a mass grave is one of the kinder methods, but many are not deemed worth the price of a bullet. For them, a hook in a meat locker will suffice. A difficult death but it keeps the bodies erect through rigor mortis – makes them easier to cram into the furnaces. But why should you trouble yourself with their fate? After all, these creatures are not truly human and handing them over to the security staff simply takes the problem neatly out of sight and out of mind. Your lying, inferior-blooded wife is one of the first to go.”

Illya was shaking his head from side to side, his face ashen with horror. “This is the truth?” he spat. “Then why was I not told? UNCLE must have been aware.” He stared sightlessly at the floor.

Ivanova laid a hand on his shoulder. “You already had a conflict of interest with the KGB on this mission, Illya.” she said, “I’m willing to wager that UNCLE kept this information back to make it easier for you to do your duty. Besides, that’s not all of it.”

Illya raised his head in disbelief. “There’s more?” he demanded.

Ivanova nodded slowly. “Oh yes, there’s more,” she yawned and shivered, “but I’m not yet fully recovered and speaking of this tires me out in more ways than you know. I need to sleep; I’ll tell you the rest when I wake.” 

She rose from the table and gave him a level look. “Try not to wake me when you come to bed,” she said without inflection, “Oh, and please don’t mind me sleeping in most of my clothes, I’m still not fully warmed up, that’s all. It’s not that I don’t trust you.” She smiled sweetly through her lashes. “It’s just that I, uh, don’t trust you.”

Illya grimaced then finally allowed his troubled expression to relax. Ivanova unlaced her boots and took off her almost-dry parka but, true to her word, kept the rest of her clothing on as she burrowed beneath the blankets and skins. Within minutes, she was deeply asleep.

Left alone, Illya spent some time making a stockpile of wood for the fire, replenishing the water supply and checking on the weather. The blizzard showed no sign of abating as yet. Illya rooted around in one of the cupboards until he found a suitable lidded pot into which he emptied oatmeal and powdered milk mixed with water. He set the pot on a cooler part of the stove to stew slowly overnight.

Once Ivanova drifted into deep sleep, Illya made a thorough search through her pack, this time investigating the lining, the straps and the insides of the pockets, and once again finding nothing. He ran a hand through his hair in exasperation: it would help if he knew what he was looking for.

Returning to the bed, he stared at her sleeping form for a while, pondering on the problem of searching her clothing while she was asleep. Giving that idea up as a bad job, it occurred to him suddenly that she was displaying a high level of trust in him, an enemy, to leave herself so vulnerable so readily. Trust or perhaps confidence? She had to be very sure Illya would not find anything to leave herself this open. 

Illya sighed and gave it up as a bad job. Not long after, he built up the fire, set his boots and outer clothing to dry and crawled underneath bedclothes finally made lukewarm by the heat of the woman’s body. As he began to drift into sleep once again, it flashed through his mind how very much he missed this safe and contented feeling of lying with someone through the night.

 

Napoleon signed off from his check-in with UNCLE New York wearing a very thoughtful expression indeed. At the sound of footsteps, he turned to see Caplan approaching, her face tense. 

“Look, Solo,” she began, “this operation has just taken a complete flip. I’d bet my boots that launch isn’t here by accident, and if the local rumours are to be believed, it’s been skulking around here for quite a while. If we want to get to the extraction point on timetable, we’re going to have to put together a strike force to take it out.”

“Yes, I guess that’s about the size of it,” Napoleon replied carefully.

“They’re waiting for something or someone and it’s too much of a coincidence to believe that this has nothing to do with your partner and Mengele,” she continued. “It has to be THRUSH and they have to be here on the same business as us.”

“Yes, I’d come to that conclusion too,” Napoleon replied with chagrin. 

“So someone’s been talking,” Caplan continued, “and with the number of agencies involved in this particular operation, the list of possibilities is endless.”

“Yes,” Napoleon fixed her with an unsmiling look, “The leak could have come from the Kremlin, the KGB or, heaven forbid, UNCLE New York. Or even UNCLE Istanbul, Miss Caplan.”

Caplan narrowed her eyes. “Take care, Mr Solo,” she said evenly.

Napoleon drew himself up to his full height. “Take care?” he replied, eyebrows raised. “I think the time for care is past, don’t you?”

Caplan’s face twisted with anger. “You’ve got nothing on me!” she flared. “Where do you get off assuming that my department’s responsible for any information leak? UNCLE New York is just as vulnerable to infiltration, maybe more so.”

“That may well be true,” Napoleon allowed, “but at least my own conscience is clear. Can you say the same?”

“How dare you!” Caplan was almost shaking with fury. “How _dare_ you accuse me of _anything!_ As if we didn’t have enough going on here with THRUSH and the Soviets, you waltz in here throwing your weight around, telling us how to do our job when you haven’t the least idea about the political pressures we deal with every day. And now your inner antennae have given a twitch and that’s enough to make me into a THRUSH plant, no evidence, no reason. You, mister, are a piece of work and no mistake!”

Napoleon was shaking his head. “I don’t think you’re THRUSH, Daniella,” he said flatly. “I’ve never thought that.”

She frowned. “So, what then?” she demanded, folding her arms and glaring.

“You tell me,” Napoleon shot back, moving into her personal space, “because whoever you work for, you’re following a different agenda to the party line.”

Caplan refused to back down. “I work for UNCLE, Solo,” she replied more quietly.

“Yes,” Napoleon took hold of her shoulders in a bruising grip, “but you were assigned to us from MOSSAD.”

“Just as you were from the CIA,” she countered, seizing his forearms, “and I don’t see anyone taking you to task for a conflict of interest there.”

“Ah, so you admit you have one?” Napoleon tightened his fingers. “Come on, Daniella; don’t waste my time!”

The woman’s face twisted. She brought her arms up wickedly fast and broke Napoleon’s grip on her shoulders. Going for a choke hold, Caplan hooked a knee around Napoleon’s lower leg, spinning him while he was off-balance and hooking her elbow around his throat.

Napoleon, however, had been waiting for her to make her move and was ready for the attack. He pivoted, sliding out of her grip, slippery as an eel, and twisted her forearm up between her shoulder blades, holding her face to face against his chest. She struggled but he merely tightened his grip.

“What are you scared of?” he whispered into her ear. “We’re still on the same side, even if our objectives differ slightly.”

Caplan stopped struggling and her eyes widened.

“You knew!” she replied hoarsely. “Your office put my file through the wringer and you _knew_.”

Napoleon nodded and his mouth curved in an ironic smile, but he did not loosen his hold. Caplan sagged, the fight seeming to go out of her all at once. Napoleon tilted her chin towards him with an index finger and tucked a stray lock of red hair behind her ear.

“It’s okay,” he murmured.

Napoleon’s kiss was the lightest of caresses, designed to test the waters, to establish whether this one was prey or predator. Caplan froze momentarily, the touch too fleeting to engender a response, and stared at Napoleon, wrong-footed. Smiling, Napoleon moved in again only to be stopped in his tracks by a firm palm in the middle of his chest.

Caplan was laughing and shaking her head. “I take it all back,” she said. “You’re a master of strategy; I take my hat off to you.”

Napoleon released her and took a slow backward step, palms raised.

“I, ah, didn’t mean to offend you,” he said urbanely.

“You didn’t,” she replied off-handedly, “but this is hardly the time or place, you have to admit.”

Napoleon scratched the back of his head ruefully. “Perhaps not,” he conceded with a hopeful smile, “Maybe later?”

Caplan fixed him with an intense look. “Maybe,” she replied. “Look, Solo, how much did your office manage to dig up on me?”

“Not much, to be honest,” Napoleon replied. “I was getting absolutely nowhere until I happened to mention Misha Kukin and the Russian joke book written in German.”

Caplan gave a bark of laughter and shook her head. “Simon’s book,” she said wonderingly. “Well I’ll be… That was what gave me away? Who would have thought anyone would pick up on that? Or even know its significance?”

“Our Research Department is second to none,” Napoleon replied with justifiable pride. He put his hands on Caplan’s shoulders again and moved her so that they were eye to eye.

“So,” he said, “You’re part of a small task force assigned by MOSSAD to Nazi-hunter Simon Wiesenthal with a running brief to track down German World War 2 criminals who have gone to ground and bring them to justice, yes?”

Caplan nodded. “That’s right,” she replied. “That’s why I was sent to join UNCLE in the first place. Simon received a strong lead which placed Adolf Eichmann in this part of the world. I speak fluent Turkish (my parents emigrated from these parts when the State of Israel was formed) and we knew the UNCLE Istanbul Office was new and crying out for quality operatives. Unfortunately, either the lead was false or Eichmann got wind of our presence. It took me three years to establish that the trail had gone cold. I was expecting MOSSAD to recall me when the news about Ernst Mengele came through.”

“And don’t tell me, let me guess,” Napoleon said with a rueful smile. “You want to take him back to Israel and sweat him about his brother, yes?”

Caplan fixed him with a level gaze and squared her shoulders.

“Would you believe me if I said no, that’s not the plan?” she asked, gently.

Napoleon smiled into the oval, Madonna face with its beautiful liquid eyes, finely delineated brows and full, shapely mouth and shook his head.

“Not a chance, baby,” he replied.

Caplan nodded as though she had expected no less. “Well, there you are then,” she said, shrugging. “That’s all I can offer you.”

Napoleon cleared his throat. “Ah, Daniella,” he began carefully, “going into the field with someone whose motives you don’t entirely trust is a very dangerous thing.”

Caplan bit her lip. “Yes,” she replied carefully. “Yes, I can see that you might feel you have good reason to distrust me.” She thought for a moment then nodded.

“Very well,” she told him with the air of making a decision. “Napoleon, Simon's interest in Ernst Mengele has has no connection with his half-brother.”

“Really?” Napoleon looked disbelieving.

“Well,” Caplan amended quickly, “If Ernst gave us useful intel, we certainly wouldn’t throw it back. But that really isn’t the reason we want him.”

She gripped Napoleon’s upper arms and looked earnestly into his face. “Your instincts were correct, Napoleon,” she told him, “I am here to bring him in, but not in order to sweat him about his brother. Josef is too wily a customer to be trapped that way." Caplan's mouth twisted in distaste but her steady gaze never wavered. "We have documentary and witness evidence," she told Napoleon in firm, deliberate tones. "Ernst Mengele deliberately murdered hundreds, perhaps thousands, of people at Buchenwald with his cruel, insane experiments. The only difference between Ernst and his half-brother was that Ernst retained his experimental data and used it in his work after the war.”

Napoleon felt sick. He turned away from Caplan and stood, hands on hips, staring out into the horizon. 

“So in a crazy sort of way, Napoleon,” Caplan continued quietly, “you were right. I do have a conflict of interest – and you can bet I won’t be able to work for UNCLE after this is over, however it ends. I had already faced up to the fact that I’ll be recalled to MOSSAD after this mission, but I want this man to face justice, Napoleon. I want him up before a Judge and Jury and I want the world to know what he did to my people.”

“And his work?” Napoleon queried. “His ground-breaking medical discoveries that will transform the world as we know it? So we are told.”

Caplan shrugged her shoulders. “That’s a policy decision, Napoleon,” she replied, “and as such, I can’t afford an opinion. I just have to do my duty.

“But I promise you,” she gripped his upper arms hard, “I give you my word that you can depend on me as a colleague and a fellow soldier in this. I will be with you, shoulder to shoulder, until we complete this Affair.”

“And after?” Napoleon’s face was grim. “What happens to Mengele once we get him?”

Caplan pursed her lips. “Let’s talk about that once Mengele – and Kuryakin – are safely in our hands, shall we?” she replied softly.

Napoleon didn’t think he had much of a choice in the matter. He sighed and stared out to the endlessly rolling sea. In all his career at UNCLE, he had never felt so conflicted or his spirits so low.


	8. Recovery

Illya lay for a few moments listening. The wind and snow still howled around the small hut, battering the walls and piling up against the door and windows. It was clear that the blizzard would not spend itself for a few hours yet, maybe even several days.

Illya lifted his hand and glanced at his watch. He blinked, tapped the glass and brought it to his ear then sighed at the silence. The watch had a self-winding mechanism but clearly something in the past several days’ activities had scuppered it. The reflection of the snow outside made it difficult to establish whether the pale light he could see was from the sun or merely moonlight. Judging by his state of fatigue, Illya reckoned that he had slept for seven hours or so. He suspected that he would benefit from another uninterrupted period of sleep before he attempted to tackle the long trek to the coast. Illya’s stamina was legendary, but the final climb to the cabin had very nearly defeated him.

Illya felt the mattress shift and turned his head just as Ivanova opened her eyes. She smiled at him, still half-asleep, then to his surprise reached out to caress his cheek gently with the knuckles of one hand. Illya watched impassively as the softness in her eyes coalesced into wary wakefulness. Clearing her throat self-consciously, she rolled away from him out of bed, bare feet padding noiselessly on the cold stone floor. After a moment, she opened the stove and began to coax the reluctant embers once again into a blaze. Turning to watch her, Illya was almost certain the flush in her cheeks was from the nearness of the fire. Almost.

Illya stretched his protesting muscles, wincing as he raised his arms above his head. He paused for a moment to order his scattered thoughts before levering himself out of bed. Now that neither of them was on the brink of imminent death and their basic needs for survival could be met, more or less, for at least another two or three days, Illya and Ivanova were going to have to set their tentative rapprochement on temporary hold and face facts.

In order to complete his mission, Illya needed to recover whatever it was Ivanova had stolen from the dead Ernst Mengele. Judging by the size of the man’s waist-pack, whatever it was could not be of any great weight or size. Illya considered microfilm as a potential medium but quickly discarded the notion as Mengele was unlikely to have had access to the technology necessary to create it. No, the information would have most likely been in a far more prosaic form – sheets of notes or a bound notebook of some kind, maybe even in code. Short of forcibly shredding Ivanova’s pack and everything she owned, including the clothes on her back, strip searching her and performing a body cavity investigation, Illya did not see how he could improve on what he had already done while she was asleep or unconscious. Besides, he had not yet given up on persuasion as a means of getting her to relinquish her ill-gotten gains voluntarily.

Yes – well, about that. Illya gave another sigh. His partner, Napoleon would be in his element here but Illya merely felt out of his depth. How on earth was he going to convince a highly-trained, former KGB agent turned THRUSH to willingly surrender the only bargaining chip she possessed? And even if he pulled that one off, could he truly guarantee to safeguard her life thereon after? He shook his head reflexively; since when had Ivanova become his responsibility? Ilya had heard of the belief that once you save a life you are responsible for the rest of its duration. A beautiful story, certainly, but he had given the legend no credence until now. Perhaps the saying is actually retroactive, he mused idly. Maybe he saved her life because he felt a kind of sympathy with her; the kinship of a worthy opponent perhaps?

Illya swung his legs over the side of the bed, cutting off that train of thought before it could grow any further, and looked for his boots.

“The storm is still raging.” 

Illya finished tying his laces and looked up at her. “Do you have a watch?” he asked in response. The murky twilight outside gave no more clue as to the time of day even now he was fully awake.

Ivanova shook her head. “I lost it in the snow,” she replied.

Illya nodded. “I think it’s about mid-morning,” he said, “but that’s only judging by how I’m feeling physically and after all the strains of the past couple of days, unfortunately I don’t think I’m a very reliable barometer.”

Ivanova went over to the stove and lifted the lid of Illya’s porridge pot curiously. She smiled and inhaled decently appetising odours.

“Mmm, _kasha_ – a proper breakfast,” she said with a smile. “That was well thought of, Illya.”

“My mother used to make _kasha_ with barley every evening,” Illya said reminiscently. “The overnight stewing made it very tender and it served to keep hunger from the door for a good few hours; we were all very grateful for it.”

“As am I,” Ivanova replied. She went to the cupboard and rooted out the half-finished jam.

“Extra calories,” she announced, waving the jar at him with a grin. 

Illya planted himself on a three-legged stool at the table and watched while she spooned the _kasha_ into bowls. When she passed him the jam he did not refuse.

“Yesterday, you said you would tell me more once we had woken,” he said, pausing for a moment in his eating. “More about Mengele, I mean.”

Ivanova nodded slowly. “Yes,” she replied. “Yes, I did.” 

“Have you changed your mind now?” Illya asked when she did not immediately continue.

“No, no.” Ivanova shook her head. “I was just trying to get thoughts in order before speaking.”

Illya finished the last of his _kasha_ and turned to face her. “Let me refresh your memory,” he said. “Buchenwald. You told me Ernst Mengele had attained some kind of status there.”

Ivanova nodded. “Yes, he did,” she replied, “but this was late in war – 1944 or thereabouts – and contact with brother Josef gave him early warning that Third Reich was waning, tide had turned and Hitler was on losing side. Ernst decamped and disappeared. Next we know, he turns up in Russia.”

Illya’s head jerked up like an English pointer. “Russia?” he said in disbelief. “Oh come on, Nataliya! 8,000 Russian prisoners of war were summarily executed at Buchenwald, most without proper burial. The Red Army would have shot him on sight if they even suspected him of being German!”

Ivanova nodded. “You would think so,” she replied equably, “but that is not how it happened, Illya. Ernst managed to pass himself off as part of Jewish Resistance using his wife’s death for camouflage and local colour. He was believed. He was allowed to return to Germany, but only to East Berlin. He worked for pharmaceuticals company _Chemie Grünenthal,_ but under false name.”

Illya swore imaginatively. “He has the luck of the devil!” He shook his head. “No, I can’t believe this. There has to be something more to it.”

Ivanova smiled faintly and nodded. “Your instinct is right, comrade, “she replied. “There is, of course. Now listen very carefully: Mengele was Jewish.”

Illya stared then took a deep breath, silently digesting this.

“Yes, it’s true.” Ivanova continued to nod her head. “Ernst’s mother was blacksmith’s daughter in small Jewish village in Bavaria. She was young girl of 17. Karl Mengele, Josef’s father, was frequent visitor to village – he was some kind of… _filantrop_.” She sighed. “I am sorry; I do not know word.”

“A philanthropist,” Illya contributed. “Someone who sets out to improve the lot of people less fortunate.”

Ivanova raised a sceptical eyebrow. “Oh really?” she continued drily. “Then Karl was very generous with his favours; blacksmith’s daughter became pregnant. Her family were without influence, so they did only humane thing possible and married her off to elderly widower. Karl was persuaded to provide education for his son. As soon as he could, Ernst cut all ties with family.”

Illya shook his head, bewildered. “But how…?” he managed.

Ivanova leaned forward and took Illya’s hand in a strong grip. “He hid Jewish heritage, Illya,” she told him seriously. “That’s how he married Berta. Her family knew he was Jew, they would never have allowed marriage otherwise. They believed that Ernst was best chance of survival for Berta, even if it meant giving up culture and religion. At least she would survive – or so they thought. Of course, once Ernst got hands on her money, it did not matter whether she lived or died.”

Illya stared wide-eyed, shaking his head. “And they call _us_ psychopaths,” he murmured.

“Do they?” Ivanova replied. She shrugged indifferently. “Well,” she said, “for Mengele, life in post-war East Berlin was hard and he wanted out. He was still in touch with Josef. Josef wanted him to go to Paraguay.”

“South America?” Illya interjected. “Why there?”

“I don’t know, Illya,” Ivanova replied, “but Josef is slippery like eel. He would have reasons.”

Illya deliberately filed that piece of information away for later consideration. “Please continue,” he told her, gesturing with one hand. 

“Instead, Ernst took more easterly road,” Ivanova continued, “ending up in Leningrad to work at Sverdlov Hospital as surgeon. Unfortunately, he was recognised by Russian soldier, survivor of Buchenwald.”

Illya gave a faint laugh and shook his head. “His luck really ran out there,” he commented. “There can only have been a very few survivors who actually managed to get home, and Ernst Mengele has the ill-fortune to run into one of them.”

Ivanova nodded. “Yes,” she continued. “He was arrested by KGB, interrogated and war history exposed.”

Illya frowned. “Unusual,” he remarked. “We were an undefeated power at the time and we held Eastern Europe under military occupation. We took part in the International Military Tribunal which investigated Nazi Germany’s war crimes, but our own were never questioned.”

“Yes,” Ivanova repeated, “and so Ernst was not executed as war criminal. Instead, Andrei Zhdanov, Stalin’s lieutenant in Leningrad, was interested in Mengele’s so-called research. He decided that State could use his work. He sent him to Moscow.”

Illya closed his eye. “Ah, no,” he breathed. “Don’t tell me, let me guess: Stalin sent him to Laboratory 12, the poisons research facility.”

Ivanova’s lips stretched into a humourless smile. “Clever man!” she replied. “Once again Ernst fell on feet, only this time he got to experiment on Russian political prisoners.”

“So,” Illya said bitterly, “instead of ridding the world of this criminal, our people put him to work to find the perfect poison. And that’s precisely what he did.”

Ivanova raised well-shaped eyebrows. “Exactly,” she agreed.

They lunched on the last of the dry crackers eaten with watered down vegetable soup from a can. Illya chewed mechanically, his mind working overtime on the information Ivanova had given him. Afterwards, he prowled the small hut restlessly, mentally willing the blizzard to abate soon; he really did not want to have to dig his way out. 

While pacing the uneven floor, Illya noted some movement beneath his feet. Stopping to check, he stooped, prodding at the unevenness with a small throwing knife taken from his boot, and unearthed a loose floorboard. All his instincts zipped into high gear as he considered the possibility that this was Ivanova’s hiding place for Mengele’s notes. Carefully, Illya pried up the board to reveal a tiny cavity containing, of all things, a dusty pack of well-used cards. Illya looked up straight into Ivanova’s amused eyes and chuckled, shaking his head in a self-effacing manner. He blew the dust off his find and brought them over to the table.

“I wonder why they were there?” he mused, flicking through them. “Some prejudice against gambling, perhaps?” As far as he could see they were simply regular cards, if slightly creased and worn.

“Do you play?” he asked the woman.

Ivanova shrugged. “Only poker,” she replied, then at Illya’s raised eyebrows, “What? I had brothers, no sisters.”

Illya nodded and counted the pack making sure there were 52 cards.

“What stakes do you want to play for?” Ivanova asked.

Illya thought about that, then his face creased into a smile and he rifled in his pack.

“Here,” he said, throwing the flat tin of chocolate on the table. 

Ivanova’s eyes widened. She picked it up, handling the dusty surface almost reverently. “Is that truly what it seems?” she asked in hushed tones.

“It certainly is,” Illya replied smiling, “and there are ten bars. Now, seeing as I didn’t bring it with me, I found it here in one of the cupboards, I’ll spot you four bars and you can play me for the rest.”

“You mean you get head start?” Ivanova protested. “That is not fair play!”

Illya shrugged with an indifference he did not entirely feel. “Take it or leave it,” he replied, opening the tin and laying out the chocolate bars on the table.

Ivanova glared then sighed, reaching out for her share. “I suppose it’s better than playing for clothing,” she said, quirking a smile at her own copious layers of wool and silk. “It would take at least one week to finish game.”

“And we’d freeze while we were about it,” Illya replied, trying to suppress a smile. He shuffled the cards awkwardly, trying to compensate for their dampness.

“Well, one of us would!” Ivanova retorted, her eyes brimming with laughter.

Illya broke into a genuine smile. “You mean _you_ would!” He started to deal, the light of challenge in his eyes.

Ivanova frowned. “What?” she retorted. “You think you can take me, Mister I’m-So-Cool-It Hurts UNCLE Agent?” She picked up her cards with a flourish.

“I don’t just think it, I know it,” Illya told her, smile still in place. He examined his cards with a completely straight face.

Ivanova compressed her full lips into a thin line. “Bring it on, _Superman!_ ” she growled.

Illya was surprised into a sudden burst of laughter. “Where do you find these sayings?” he asked. He shook his head at her affronted expression. “Never mind. Come on – your deal.”

They bent their heads to begin the match.

 

The fishing boat boasted two motor dinghies, Napoleon was relieved to hear, as well as a small but well-equipped armoury below decks with enough ordnance to take out a medium-sized embassy. Of the four-man crew, the injured Captain would stay on board accompanied by the navigator, Cenap. The other two crew-members would take one of the dinghies leaving Napoleon with Caplan in the other. 

If Napoleon were honest, he would have preferred to go alone but this was clearly against UNCLE guidelines and both he and Caplan knew it. Napoleon conducted a swift weapons check with Haluk and Teylan as Caplan rolled up in fatigues complete with camouflage paint, toting an assault rifle, a selection of grenades and an expression that would strip paint. She squinted at the sky and frowned.

“We’d do well to wait till it’s full dark,” she announced to no one in particular. “There’s no moon tonight so we stand a good chance of making a surprise attack.”

“Yes, thank you, Miss Caplan,” Napoleon replied politely.

She shrugged. “Just saying,” she said. She wandered aft and stood hands on hips, staring out to sea.  
Napoleon glanced after her then smiled at the other two operatives.

“Excuse me,” he said, turning to follow the girl.

Napoleon approached Caplan slowly and with the kind of circumspection usually reserved for unpredictable wild animals. He stood quietly by her side and waited.

Presently she sighed and her shoulders sagged.

“Napoleon,” she said quietly, “we have to work together on this. Hell, we have to fight together – I can’t work with you if you won’t trust me.”

Before he could answer, she turned a serious, anxious expression on him.

“I graduated way ahead of the rest of my class at Survival School,” she told him, “and all my scores were up in the top ten _of all time._ In fact, the only people who beat my sharpshooting scores were you and Illya Kuryakin.

“You have to let me do my job,” she put a hand on his arm. “I swear to you that I will watch your back and be everything you want in a partner for this mission. I know I can’t replace Mr Kuryakin but I _can_ do the job – if you’ll let me.”

Napoleon sighed and fished in his pocket for a pack of cigarettes. He offered them and after a moment’s hesitation, she took one. He rooted around for a lighter.

Caplan took a short puff and looked at her cigarette with distaste. “They’ll kill you, you know,” she said.

“So they tell me,” Napoleon replied bleakly. He drew in a lungful of smoke and sighed as the nicotine hit. He turned to face the woman.

“Look, Daniella,” Napoleon said carefully, “I’m offering a truce. Yes, I’ll trust you for this mission. I’ll trust you because I have to, because it’s the only way I stand any chance of getting my partner out alive.”

Caplan firmed her lips and nodded. “I won’t let you down, Napoleon,” she said. “You can count on it.”

“But I won’t stand back and let you take Mengele back to Israel without a fight,” Napoleon finished firmly.

“I wouldn’t expect you to,” Caplan replied calmly, “but I give you my word; you can trust me.”

Napoleon merely nodded, staring out to sea.

“Still no word from Mr Kuryakin?” Caplan said after smoking in silence for a while.

Napoleon shook his head. She gestured speculatively at the snow-covered mountains on the horizon.

“Weather’s pretty bad up there,” she remarked. “Looks like blizzard conditions. If he’s caught in that, he’ll be stuck for at least two days, if not longer.”

Napoleon shook his head. “Illya wasn’t intending to go up into the mountains,” he demurred. “We knew that Mengele was a decent cross-country skier so they were intending to keep to the lowlands and go via the Dariber Pass. That’s hardly high ground.”

“Maybe he ran into some trouble, who knows?” Caplan drew on her cigarette then gestured with it. “But I’ll tell you this much: I know those mountains. It’s not easy to find shelter once the weather deteriorates. It had better break soon or Search and Rescue will be looking to recover bodies.”

Napoleon shook his head. “He’ll get through, depend on it.” His tone was firm. “Illya’s the best cold weather expert we have. He knows what he’s doing.”

Caplan gave him a speculative look but said no more.

Napoleon visibly shook off his pensive mood. “And here I am,” he said, with a lopsided smile, “moonlight, starlight and a lovely lady, and all I can talk about is my absent partner.

Caplan smiled, clearly deciding to play the game. “So,” she said archly, “what _would_ you like to talk about, Mr Solo?”

“Napoleon, please, now that we’re friends again,” Napoleon said easily. “I’d like to talk about you.” He moved closer and took the hand without the cigarette. “How a nice girl like you got into a crazy job like this. You know, I never really thanked you for coming to my rescue at the airport?”

Caplan’s smile widened. “Did you not?” she said. “Well, how would you suggest you go about that, then?”

“Well,” Napoleon replied expansively, “if we were in Paris or Rome, or any other European capital, I’d tell you to get your glad rags on, take you for a candlelit dinner at a quiet, intimate restaurant followed by cocktails and live music, finishing up with a nightcap at your hotel.”

“Oh, really?” Caplan raised her eyebrows. “And where would I be staying? Somewhere famous?”

Napoleon stroked her knuckles making circles with his thumb. “Very famous – and verrry comfortable,” he drawled. “Lavish even. With wonderfully, decadently luxurious… beds.”

Caplan flicked her cigarette into the water and leaned into Napoleon’s lips. It was just a short, gentle brush of mouths, a kiss that spoke of promise rather than fulfilment. She pulled away before he was ready to let her go and he gave her puppy eyes, lips still pursed.

“That was nice,” he husked. Caplan smiled and moved in again. Napoleon reached one hand between her shoulder blades, the other sliding around the back of her neck, angling her head so that he could kiss her more deeply. They parted, lips clinging then separating softly.

Napoleon smiled into her eyes. “That was even nicer,” he said. His voice was gentle.

Caplan returned the smile wryly. “But not a prelude to anything more, I’m afraid,” she replied with chagrin.

“Oh?” Napoleon queried.

Caplan shook her head. “We have a mission, Mr Solo,” she admonished, eyes twinkling, “or had you forgotten?”

“Perish the thought, Miss Caplan,” Napoleon replied in matching sepulchral tones. He grinned. “No, indeed,” he continued in his normal voice. “We have something of a battle ahead of us, there’s no doubt about that. A battle either, or indeed neither, of us may survive.” The puppy eyes made another appearance.

Caplan gave an abrupt burst of laughter and shook her head. “You certainly live up to your reputation,” she replied, grinning broadly. “Seriously though, Napoleon, right now I think I’d like to save my adrenaline rush for fight or flight, if you don’t mind. I prefer to live to fight another day.” 

Napoleon smiled slowly. “And afterwards?” he asked quietly. “Once the “fight” is over and your adrenaline levels are still high?”

Caplan matched Napoleon’s smile. “Then we’ll see,” she told him. “Don’t forget; you have to survive first.”

“With that kind of incentive,” Napoleon declared gallantly, “who could fail?”

He watched her _derriere_ as she wandered back towards the stern then he threw his cigarette end into the sea and followed in her wake.


	9. All's Fair

Ivanova looked at her cards and sighed. Illya eyed her and shook his head pityingly.

“If you don’t mind me commenting on your play,” he said quietly, “game strategy dictates that you are supposed to hide your reactions. The whole point of poker is to mislead your opponent. No offence, Nataliya, but if you can’t hide your emotions, you’re dead in the water.

Ivanova gave him a look of dislike. “What is the point of dissembling?” she complained. “I’m not exactly far from that place now.”

Illya smiled crookedly. “You can always concede, you know,” he said with no little smugness.

Ivanova rolled her eyes. “And give you satisfaction?” she replied bitterly and shook her head. “I think not.”

“By my calculations,” Illya said, “you have three and a half chocolate bars left. That’s just about enough to make a decent stab at it. You could still win.”

The corners of Ivanova’s plush mouth turned down in annoyance. “Well, if you’re so sure of yourself,” she told him, “make a bet that you know I can’t match.”

Illya smiled and shook his head. “Not so fast,” he replied. “I’m not that sure of you.” He looked back at his hand and considered for a moment or two. 

Ivanova fidgeted noticeably. “Oh, Illya!” she protested. “Let’s get this over with. I have to show you how to cook this evening – you remember?”

“I remember,” Illya replied. “Very well – here.” He pushed three and a half chocolate bars into the middle of the table. Ivanova stared in shock and Illya smirked back at her.

“That’s, well, most of what you have left,” Ivanova said, looking shocked. 

“And it’s all _you_ have left,” Illya replied.

Ivanova dragged fingers through her hair. “You must have a very good hand to show such arrogance,” she grumbled, biting her lip.

“And you have to put up or shut up,” Illya told her, his mouth twitching in amusement.

“I have to bet everything,” Ivanova said in some dismay, “on this one hand?” She shook her head, smiling slightly and turned to look at Illya.

“Have you ever risked everything to win, Illya?” she asked softly. “Have you ever bet things you could not afford to lose on the chance that you might win the desire of your heart?”

Illya appeared to give this consideration. He shook his head. “No,” he replied, carefully. “I have never gambled that which I did not own, and nothing that I have owned has ever had that much sway over me.”

“Not friends?” Ivanova continued, equally quietly. “Principles? Love?”

Illya laid his cards face down on the table and leaned his mouth against his clasped hands. “Friends are not mine to gamble with,” he replied after some thought, “although friendship can be risked – and indeed lost.” He paused for a moment. “And although principles are of great importance in our line of work,” he added after further thought, “too many of them could be looked upon as weaknesses; pressure points.” He sat back in his chair; his eyes were very far away. 

“What of love?” Ivanova whispered.

“Love?” Illya gave a dry laugh. “Love is the purview of people whose lives do not involve international law enforcement,” he said with finality.

“But you believe in love, yes?” Ivanova insisted.

“Certainly,” Illya replied, “in places where there is no war, espionage, torture, imprisonment or oppression. Yes, I believe in love.”

Ivanova held his gaze; her eyes were very dark. She bit her lip then shrugged.

“Very well, go ahead,” she said pushing all her remaining chocolate bars into the centre of the table. “After all, it’s not as if I have much to lose now.”

Illya smiled faintly as though what he was about to do gave him no pleasure, and turned his cards over: a straight flush in spades, nine to queen.

Ivanova nodded slowly. “Yes,” she said. “I can see now why you were so confident.”

Illya gave her a sympathetic smirk and reached for the pot, but Ivanova halted his movement by gently resting her hand on his wrist.

“Don’t you want to see what I have?” she asked softly.

Illya raised his eyebrows but did not move his hand. “Does it matter?” he asked.

Without breaking eye contact, Ivanova turned over her cards one at a time to reveal a Royal Flush in hearts. Illya’s face broke into an almost comical expression of dismay and he slapped the table with an open palm.

_“Der'mo!”_ he grated, throwing the cards down on the table. He turned on Ivanova who had a hand over her mouth to stifle her giggles. “You,” he said menacingly. “You with your sweet, beautiful lying face!”

Ivanova’s chuckles expanded into full-fledged hilarity. “Oh, it hurts to laugh!” she protested, holding her sides helplessly.

Illya rose from his chair and advanced to her side of the table. “You little minx!” he said in outrage, “You _shalun'ya!_ I should put you across my knee!”

“You and whose army?” Ivanova responded, scrambling to her feet and dodging towards the chimney.

Illya advanced on her. “Me, myself and these two hands,” he told her, palms held upwards.

Ivanova backed around the chimney, still giggling. She squeaked piercingly as Illya darted towards her and turned to run. 

There was not a great deal of room to manoeuvre in the hut. Despite her nimbleness and physical dexterity, Ivanova had few options. Cornered, she feinted in one direction, trying to slither past her adversary, but Illya’s hand whipped out with the speed of a striking snake and grabbed her wrist. Using her momentum to swing her into the wall of the hut, Illya leaned his full weight over her struggling body, pinning her hard against the wooden surface. With effort, he pushed her hands above her head and smiled down at her, panting slightly for breath. 

“Now, you little witch,” he said triumphantly, “It is time for a reckoning! In the absence of paper and pencil for you to write Lines, you will recite 50 times:- _I must not tell lies to Illya_ ”.

Ivanova smirked up into his face. “I cannot do this,” she replied, “or you would have to issue me with further sanctions for telling further lies!”

Illya wrapped strong fingers around her pinioned wrists and slid his freed hand around the back of her head, gripping her hair.

“Take your punishment,” he said, forcing her to look up at him, “or face the consequences.”

“Your threats do not frighten me,” she told him, raising her chin defiantly. “I have been trained to resist all forms of torture. Do your worst, Illya Nickovetch, and see where it gets you!”

With a sudden burst of strength, Ivanova wrenched a hand free, forcing Illya to relinquish his hold on her hair to compensate. With effort, he re-established his hold, gritting his teeth as she struggled ineffectually against his greater strength, her head whipping from side to side. He grabbed her chin between the fingers of his free hand, grinning down into her furious face, and suddenly his amusement trickled away. His breathlessness suddenly had little to do with physical activity and his amusement morphed into something else entirely as he watched Ivanova’s eyes darken and knew that his own were doing the same. Illya slowly dipped his head and kissed her mouth briefly, gently, testing the waters. Ivanova did not exactly respond but neither did she protest or struggle and so having few other options, he tried it again.

It was better the second time, much better. Illya released the woman’s hands and allowed his own to wander over her shoulders and down her back. He felt her fingers twine around his neck and into his hair, and he opened his mouth to search into hers, hungry for the physical contact, something to which he scarcely ever gave a fleeting thought. He felt her pulse leap under his hands, heard someone’s harsh breaths and realised they were his own.

Ivanova laid her palms on his shoulders and pushed. Reluctantly Illya yielded, dishevelled and disarrayed; his mouth felt hot and swollen. She gave him a tiny smile and took his hand, leading him past the stove and over to the bed. Once there, she shed her thick woollen ski sweater and stretched out her lean limbs on the animal skin bedding, waiting. Illya moved carefully over her, covering her body with his body, her mouth with his mouth, and listened as her gasps and quiet moans blended with his own; whispers of secrets as soft and impermanent as the falling snow.

 

Armed to the teeth and accompanied by two very tough-looking seamen similarly equipped with sub-machine guns, grenades and a bazooka rocket launcher, Napoleon admitted to being slightly over-awed at the amount of fire-power being expended on this mission. Caplan gave him a sidelong glance as if divining his thoughts.

“This guy is a big wheel, Solo,” she said firmly. “We need to get him back, together with whatever it is he’s carrying. Neither he nor it can be allowed to get into the wrong hands.”

Napoleon frowned in irritation. “I know that, Caplan,” he said, quickly assembling his UNCLE special. He gestured with it for her to lead the way. “Ladies first,” he quipped, unsurprised when she ignored him.

Making their way by stealth through the dark moonless waters, Napoleon and his team worked with muffled oars, engines silent in the blackness. The THRUSH launch loomed soundlessly against the dim horizon like a ghost, eerie with only minimal lighting. Napoleon coolly checked out the manpower through infrared goggles, marking only two men on watch in contrast to the eight they had counted during the earlier scuffle.

Napoleon watched as the other team calmly set up their bazooka and on his signal began firing on the enemy craft. Caplan made dextrous use of percussion grenades with Napoleon laying down machine gun fire as a belated resistance began. 

“They’re trying to assemble a Vulcan!” Caplan shouted above the din. _A Gatling? God!_ Napoleon squinted, trying to make it out, and suddenly caught sight of something that made his eyebrows shoot up to his hairline.

“Fall back!” he yelled into the radio, yanking the dinghy’s engines into reverse.

“What?” Caplan snapped, a look of almost comical confusion on her face.

Napoleon slammed a hand between her shoulder blades and thrust her down into the bottom of the dinghy. He flung himself on top of her just as one of their colleagues’ rockets ignited the THRUSH boat’s fuel tank. The explosive shockwave had them hanging on for dear life and their backs were showered with spray and debris as the launch exploded spectacularly.

Caplan raised cautious eyes to the display and grinned in triumph, exchanging a high five with Napoleon.

“Now perhaps we can get on with the job we came here to do!” she said exultantly, taking the tiller and turning the dinghy in a wide arc back to the _Mavi_. Napoleon clung on, his smile fading a little as he watched her, his eyes cautious and speculative.

“Indeed,” he muttered, shooting a last look over his shoulder at the burning debris.

 

Illya played idly with Ivanova’s blond hair, twisting it around his fingers. Occasionally he brushed his lips against the soft skin of her shoulder, making her shiver and smile lazily. She ran her fingers slowly over his bare chest, eyes half closed, languid and sated.

“You are very warm,” Ivanova murmured.

“So my bed partners tell me,” Illya replied, turning on his side to lean over her.

“And have there been many?” Ivanova asked curiously. She placed an index finger against his lips as he drew breath to reply. “No, don’t answer that. It’s not my business to know.”

“You scarcely have to worry,” Illya replied. “I’m afraid there have been depressingly few women prepared to embark on any kind of, um, connection with a man whose life expectancy is less than a pot plant. No, I was merely referring to my partner.”

“You share a bed?” Ivanova asked, raising an eyebrow. “Either UNCLE’s finances are in a worse way than I thought or there is something you should have told me before we did this!”

Illya gave her an old-fashioned look. “Napoleon and I don’t share living accommodations,” he replied gravely, “but UNCLE regulations on safety make sharing hotel rooms mandatory, for reasons of security. And some hotel establishments don't provide single beds.” He shrugged and shook his head. “Also,” he continued with a wry smile, “Mr Waverly is notoriously economical when it comes to temporary accommodation while on missions.”

Ivanova returned his smile with a knowing one of her own. “Things are quite similar in THRUSH,” she confided, “believe it or not.” 

Illya wrapped his arms around her and pulled her against his chest with a sigh. “Your skin, on the other hand,” he told her, “is really quite cool. Do you feel cold? I would be very willing to share bodily warmth with you once again, if that would help to solve the problem.”

Ivanova laughed, a free, joyful sound, and leaned her cheek against his shoulder. Illya smiled and stroked her hair. This time when their lips met it was warmly familiar.

Ivanova finally drew away, levering herself up on her hands and gazing down into his face before shifting to lie on her back with a sigh.

“I am thinking,” she began slowly, “that this,” she gestured to the disarranged bed and their naked bodies, “is not a common occurrence for you, no?”

Illya raked a hand through his sweaty fringe. “You would be correct in your thoughts,” he replied diffidently, “My _occurrences_ , if you care to put it that way, tend to happen on the job and are rarely so pleasant.”

“And is this part of the job too, Illya?” Ivanova asked carefully. Illya drew breath to reply but she shook her head.

“No, no,” she interrupted. “Once again, I do not wish to know. Let me hold on to my illusions; I can afford to indulge very few of those in our line of work.”

“So,” Ivanova continued with an air of changing the subject, “have you decided?”

Illya rolled onto his front and hooked an ankle over her leg. “Decided what?” he asked, kissing her neck. “Whether I will make love to you again right now, or in ten minutes’ time?” 

Ivanova closed her eyes and arched into the sensation. “Decided what you are going to do with me?” she replied through a sigh.

Illya said nothing, continuing to trail kisses over her skin until he met her mouth. Ivanova turned away. 

“Illya, please,” she persisted. 

Illya paused in his actions and reluctantly turned onto his back. The stiffness of his body language, so fluid until now, betrayed him. 

Ivanova thinned her lips and nodded. “I thought so,” she said. Her voice sounded dead.

“I said nothing!” Illya protested.

“You didn’t need to,” Ivanova replied. “Your poker face is good, Illya Nickovetch, but I am beginning to believe that you are the kind of man who cannot keep secrets in bed. Maybe that is why this is such an uncommon occurrence for you, yes? You do not do this as often as your partner does.”

Illya’s laugh was dry. “If I made love to as many women as Napoleon does in a week,” he replied tartly, “I would hardly have the energy to get out of bed, let alone do my job. The man's stamina is legendary.”

He was struck by a sudden thought. “Does THRUSH have written details in its files of all my sexual conquests?” he asked with interest.

Ivanova nodded. “Oh, indeed,” she replied. “As far back as your playground kiss with Anna Dimitrievna on a dare from your classmates – at the grand old age of 9 years!” 

Her face creased into a smile at Illya’s momentary confusion and she poked his ribs with a forefinger.

“Admit it, I had you there,” she crowed as he wriggled away. “And you're ticklish! Oho, _that_ was _not_ in your file!” 

“Isn't everyone, in some way, ticklish?” Illya retorted, stilling her questing hands and rolling his body over hers, “And you have had me in more ways than one this day, Natasha.” Her upturned mouth was ripe for kissing, so he kissed it.

Ivanova responded for a minute or so then gently disengaged with a sigh, reaching out a hand to caress his flank by way of apology. Turning on his back, Illya examined the ancient spider webs on the ceiling of the hut for a long moment, then sighed heavily. 

“You are right, of course,” he said resignedly. “I have no choice, Natasha. I have to bring you in and hand you over to UNCLE.”

The woman nodded, expressionless. “And you realise that I have no choice either, yes?” she replied, “That I cannot allow you to do this?”

Illya shook his head but remained silent.

Ivanova pursed her lips. “I might have known that this would make no difference,” she told him, bitterness in the tone.

Illya sat up on one elbow and frowned speculatively. “And that is why you allowed this to happen? A means to an end?” Abruptly, all emotion drained out of his face leaving his expression curiously blank. He gave a soft bark of laughter. “I congratulate you on an exemplary performance, Agent Ivanova.” His smile was brittle. “With a more suggestive target – my partner, Napoleon Solo for example – you might have achieved your object.”

Ivanova stared at him; her mouth opened but no speech emerged. Illya swung his legs over the side of the bed, looking vaguely for his socks. He glanced back at her over his shoulder.

“My apologies,” he said, unable to keep the resentment out of his tone. “I did not realise it was that kind of transaction. I cannot, of course, pay you in the coin you have requested but if you will give me a moment, I will see how much of the local currency I still have in my wallet. There should be sufficient to cover your costs, assuming that your fee is not significantly above the local rate.” 

Illya reached for his clothes, somewhat surprised not to hear a reply. Turning back to the bed, he locked eyes with Ivanova who made no attempt to speak but merely returned his gaze steadily. The impasse held for a few moments but it was Illya who was first to look away.

He sighed, “I am sorry,” he said to the floor. “That was unworthy of you – and of me.”

“Yes, it was,” Ivanova returned softly.

Illya drew breath, made as if to speak then stopped himself. He turned his head to face her again.

“Nataliya,” he began urgently, “if you were to tell me where you have hidden Mengele’s research notes…?”

Ivanova waited for him to finish. When he did not she sighed, nodding. 

“ _Moy lyubov',_ you would trade me my freedom for a weapon that could destroy the world?” she said. Her eyes were soft and she moved over to him, letting the blankets fall from her body. She leaned against his back, her chin resting on his shoulder. Careful fingers tilted his chin towards her.

“Illya,” she said seriously, “my life has been valued many times before but never so highly.” She smiled sadly.

Illya flushed and turned his head, embarrassed. He forced himself to look back at her, reaching out to cradle her face in his large hands. “Natasha,” he said gently, “I can’t let you take Mengele’s research with you. I have serious personal reservations about the use UNCLE will make of this knowledge, but I know for certain I can’t let THRUSH get hold of it.”

“I know that, Illya,” Ivanova told him, “but with nothing to bargain, what use is my freedom? Where can I go, who can I turn to?”

Her eyes were huge and dark. Illya swallowed, gathered her into his arms again and allowed her to draw him back into the bedclothes. He turned on his side and eased her away from his chest so he could look her in the face. He slid a hand into her corn coloured hair.

“Come with me,” he said, putting all the conviction and sincerity he could find into his voice and face. “If you bring Mengele’s notes with you to UNCLE, Waverley will cut some kind of a deal with the KGB to keep you alive. You won’t be free but you’ll be protected.”

Ivanova’s eyes slid away. Illya kissed her lips gently and nestled her head against his chest.

“It’s better than imprisonment by the KGB,” he told her urgently, “or death from THRUSH. UNCLE can keep you safe.”

Ivanova jerked her head up and stared. “From THRUSH?” she said disbelievingly. She smiled without humour. “Illya, my love, even UNCLE can’t guarantee my safety forever, and THRUSH has a long memory and even longer arms. No one ever leaves, except in a coffin.”

Illya buried his face in her hair, nuzzling her ear. He felt utterly helpless and hated the feeling. He had nothing to offer her apart from further distraction from the fast approaching future. He continued to kiss her for lack of any other form of reassurance and presently he felt her respond and turn to him once again.

An hour or so later, Illya’s ever-vigilant stomach gave an imprudent rumble. Her spirits apparently fully restored by the activity, Ivanova giggled at his discomfiture and suggested that it was now time she kept her promise of dinner. Illya caught her around the waist as she tried to leave the bed and suggested that the stew could wait and she could fulfil a different kind of promise first. Ivanova expressed astonishment, suggested that Illya was trying to compete with his partner for stamina. Illya spluttered indignantly until she kissed him soundly and told him to possess his soul in patience; he needed to build up his strength first. Illya quirked an eyebrow but held his peace. Privately, he wondered, with no little interest, what on earth she had in mind for him after dinner.

Twenty minutes, four different cans and some water later, Illya had to admit that the aromas rising from the cooking pot were starting to bear out her claim of superior cooking skills. Ivanova added some of the Multipurpose Food powder she took from her pack, but her secret weapon – a small jar of dried salted mixed herbs, old but still good – was likely to make the most difference to the final result.

They laid the table with what utensils they could find and Illya searched out candles and holders to lend a little more cosiness to the hut. By his reckoning, they were in the darkest part of the night, the wee small hours of the morning just before dawn, not that time could actually mean anything trapped in this impermanent bubble of safety.

“You know,” Illya remarked, as he gathered beakers for water, “The wind has dropped. I believe the snow may be abating.”

Ivanova smiled back at him from the window. “I think you’re right,” she replied. “With luck and a few hours’ respite, we might be able to leave this place once the sun rises.” Illya did not reply.

Ivanova moved back over to the stove to stir the stew, bringing the huge wooden spoon to her lips to taste.

“Mmm!” She closed her eyes in apparent ecstasy. “Worthy of a gourmet restaurant!”

“Indeed,” Illya replied, inclining his head gravely, “but the proof of the pudding is in the eating. Are you going to serve it now, or will you wait until I have expired from hunger so that you can have it all to yourself?” He picked up a plate and held it out towards her with a mournful expression worthy of Oliver Twist himself.

Grinning, Ivanova served him with a large portion of the stew, giving herself a rather smaller one and coming to sit close enough to him at the refectory table that their thighs rubbed together. Illya hardly noticed; he applied himself single-mindedly to the food, hardly pausing for breath, as though he had been on starvation rations for the past six months. Ivanova proceeded at a slightly slower rate, shooting the occasional amused sidelong glance at her companion.

“Well?” she asked, as he paused briefly to drink some water.

Illya shot a questioning glance at her then dived straight back into his food.

“Illya,” Ivanova repeated, nudging him with her elbow.

“Mmm,” he responded, mouth still full. He swallowed and turned to nod gravely at her.

“’S good,” he replied indistinctly.

“Better than yours?” she demanded.

“Well, I wouldn’t go quite that…”

“Oh, come on, Illya!”

“Very well then – yes, it’s better than mine. Now, will you let me eat it in peace?”

Ivanova chuckled and attacked her own portion with less vigour. Presently, Illya left the table to replenish his plate bringing the pot and serving spoon back with him.

“So,” Ivanova began some time later.

“Hmm?” Illya replied, attention occupied with scraping out the last of the stew. “You know, it’s a shame we have no bread to soak up the liquid.” He looked up at her. “I’m sorry – did you ask me something?”

She smiled and shook her head. Illya picked up the pot to return it to the stovetop.

“Coffee?” he asked over his shoulder.

Ivanova shook her head. “I have a better idea.” She bustled over to the cupboards, returning with a couple of very dusty shot glasses and the forgotten bottle of _horilka_. As she wiped the glasses out with a clean rag, Illya looked around for the chocolate pieces, forgotten after their abandoned poker game, and found a small bowl to heap them into. 

Ivanova passed him a glass of the clear liquid and poured another for herself. Sipping it cautiously, the girl wheezed and coughed, gasping at the strength of it. Illya laughed, sampling his own and raising his eyebrows at the familiar flavour. He held the glass up to the candlelight and smiled with genuine pleasure.

“It’s years since I’ve tasted Ukrainian moonshine,” he said.

Ivanova wiped the tears from her eyes. “And I pray it may be years yet until I taste it again!” she replied.

Illya raised his eyebrows in mock horror. “You reject my country’s national drink?” he said, “And you are supposed to prefer it to vodka, according to UNCLE’s files. Is this all part of a grand misinformation campaign? What other lies about you have I innocently accepted as gospel truth?”

Ivanova shook her head with a smile. “None at all,” she replied, “but this is very far from the _horilka_ I have known. This I would prefer to employ for its proper use – as an accelerant.” She emptied her small glass over the cooking fire where it flamed prettily. She smiled up at Illya and nodded at the bottle. “Give me some mercury fulminate and I could take out a small building with this! I’ll just stick with the chocolate, thank you.”

Illya made a face and shrugged. “It’s your loss,” he replied, knocking back his second glass of the stuff and grinning through the burn.

As they sat sharing their meagre luxuries, Illya felt his body relax in a way he had not been able to for days. The stove was well supplied with firewood and the fabric of the hut seemed to have taken on a degree or two of warmth against the frigid outdoor temperature. The meal had been nourishing and inwardly warming, not to mention far tastier than anything Illya himself had ever produced in similar situations, and the chocolate together with the Ukrainian firewater was the height of indulgence. 

The tiny amount of liquor Ivanova had drunk seemed to have immediately gone to her head for she was giggling helplessly and leaning on him, her head in his shoulder, against his chest. They could have one more night together, Illya decided as he tightened his arms around her. They could extend the truce for just a few more hours before facing the prospect of becoming enemies once again. For Illya was certain that not only had the wind dropped but the snowfall had also ceased. Once morning came, they would be able to make tracks down to the coast. He frowned and squinted at the window; he could see starlight reflected off the snow. Not daylight, surely – dawn was hours away yet.

Illya blinked, trying to clear the blurring in his vision. His eyelids felt heavy and his muscles unresponsive. He looked up to see Ivanova sitting by his side, no longer laughing but regarding him with a curiously intent expression.

“Natasha…?” he whispered, eyes falling to his half-finished glass of _horilka_. To his horror, he was unable to control his body. He felt himself slumping, slowly sliding, unable to remain seated on the chair. Ivanova rose and skirted the table, catching Illya deftly before he could fall. She half-carried him over to the unmade bed where she eased him down, spreading out the covers and tucking them around him. Illya fought with all his might against the unbearable lassitude but to no avail. She smoothed his blond hair back from his face and kissed his lips once gently, regretfully.

“I’m sorry, Illya,” she said softly. “Call it a weakness if you will, but I really do not want to kill you and I cannot let you take me back to UNCLE either. It is a sedative, nothing more sinister. You will fall asleep for several hours just as soon as it takes full effect, and you will wake with a headache but nothing worse, I promise. The fire will burn for another few hours yet so you will not freeze to death, but this will give me a window to make my exit.”

She reached up to plump the pillow around his head and the action drew her sleeve up over her left wrist. She saw the direction of his eyes and gave him a rueful look.

“I may not have been exactly truthful when I told you I had lost my watch.” She had the grace to look a little shamefaced. “But I could not allow you to know how close to dawn we were. Please, you must understand; I really do have your best interests at heart.”

Ivanova smiled down at him tenderly. “You were wonderful,” she told him in a whisper. “Under other circumstances… but no matter. I will always remember you. _Proshchay moya lyubov’.”_ She kissed his unresponsive mouth once again while reaching into the inside pocket of his jacket to confiscate his communicator.

Illya really could not move. He watched out of the corner of his eye as Ivanova quickly donned her outer clothing and crammed the remains of the biscuits and a couple of Illya’s Space Food bars into her pack. She found Illya’s UNCLE special, assembled its attachments and slung it over her shoulder, then she purloined his spare ammo, ice axe and his one remaining ski pole, looking about her in perplexity for the other. After spending a few more fruitless minutes searching, she appeared to give it up as a bad job and opened the wooden door to the silence of clear air and a rising sun; the promise of a brand new day. The last Illya saw of her was as she put on his skis and took off into the snow without looking back.


	10. Bridging the Gap

“Still nothing?” Caplan came upon Napoleon as he capped his communicator for the third time in an hour. He shook his head, his face grim.

“The snowstorm seems to have died down,” Caplan told him. “I’ve done a sweep of the mountainside with the binoculars – it’s clear. Reception should be back to normal.”

“It _is_ normal, Daniella,” Napoleon replied. “That’s not the problem. The problem is that Illya's just not responding.”

Caplan’s expression turned sympathetic. She put a hand on Napoleon’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly. Napoleon nodded then squared his shoulders.

“I’m not giving up on him yet,” he replied. “The agreed extraction _rendez-vous_ is in three hours. We’ll travel to the meeting point and give him 12 hours to make contact before we consider any other course of action.”

Opening her mouth to argue, Caplan stole one quick glance at Napoleon’s implacable expression and bit her lip. “Very well,” she nodded.

 

It was a little like trying to hold back a circling vortex of water flowing into a drain with nothing but his bare hands, Illya thought. He concentrated, trying to force his slack muscles into obedience, but to no avail. The creeping lethargy slithering slowly and inexorably through his body progressively paralysed his nervous system leaving a trail of cold numbness in its wake. He had no idea why he was even still conscious. Perhaps Ivanova had erred in calculating the dose of whatever THRUSH drug she had given him, or maybe the impurities in the _horilka_ had interfered with the drug’s chemistry; Illya did not know. However, the level of conscious movement he had attained was so far from useful he might just as well be insensible for all the good it would do him. Focussing his energies, Illya made a last-ditch effort. Sweat broke out on his forehead, trickling uncomfortably into his eyes, and he gritted his teeth as hard as he was able. To his overwhelming gratitude, his right arm moved. True, only a bare inch, but this was better than nothing. He exhaled in a burst of relief. Now to work on this, keep moving – fingers, toes, eyelids – anything just to try to throw off the effects.

In an inner pocket of his pack, Illya had stowed his own version of a pick-me-up – a miniature syringe of synthesised adrenaline, a drug long-known to UNCLE medics. Section 8 had well-documented evidence that naturally produced adrenaline went some way towards mitigating the effects of a few commonly used THRUSH drugs, including various veridicals, sedatives and paralytics. Illya knew the odds were good that this synthetic agent would at least help to disperse the effects of the THRUSH drug more quickly, if not act as an actual counter-agent. However, his pack was slung carelessly against the doorframe where Ivanova had left it, and he was at the other side of the room, pinned by his own paralysis. Never had a mere two-yard stretch seemed such an impossible distance.

It took more than an hour, and the sweat on his body was icy by time Illya managed to overcome his lethargy sufficiently to reach his uncertain salvation. Fumbling with the fastenings of his pack, hands still clumsy and unresponsive, Illya reflected bitterly both on his current vulnerability and his fatal error in letting his guard down. 

“I am no better than Napoleon,” he muttered savagely, forcing his frozen fingers to flex and extend. “He, at least, has the excuse that seduction is part of his armoury, and when he is unsuccessful it is usually through ill-luck rather than lack of foresight. I should have obeyed my instincts and left her to freeze in the blizzard. It is insupportable that I - _I_ \- should have been so off my game as to turn my back on an enemy agent! I deserve my humiliation. I deserve any disciplinary action that Mr Waverley cares to subject me to.”

Illya sighed. His hands slackened against the intractable canvas. “That is, if he has the opportunity,” he added, rubbing his palms together as briskly as he could manage. “If my recovery does not proceed at a markedly quicker pace, I will not only be guilty of losing my asset, failing to secure his notes and allowing his killer to escape into the bargain, but also of missing my extraction _rendez-vous_ window. I will be declared MIA and will probably perish trying to ski my way out of these damned mountains. That is, if I am not picked up by my own people and summarily shot as a traitor and a spy.”

Illya wrenched furiously at the flap of his pack and felt it give. He rummaged as quickly as he could, fingertips skidding over the internal zip fastener, then at last he located the syringe in its canvas case, mercifully unbroken. Without pause, he held the small tube up to the light left-handed, supporting the elbow with his right against its trembling. He depressed the plunger to expel the air, biting his tongue with concentration. Fumbling his belt open, Illya plunged the cannula into his thigh muscle, injecting the contents with barely a wince. He then sank back against the wall, his chest heaving in exhaustion, as the adrenaline coursed through his body.

Illya did not have long to wait. The effects of the drug began almost immediately and were, as he recalled from prior experience, universally unpleasant. Illya gasped as his pulse suddenly rocketed and his heart thumped painfully against his imprisoning ribs. He shook his head against the sudden ringing in his ears and flinched as various internal muscles constricted seemingly of their own volition. His skin crawled with unbearable itchiness; the very roots of his hair seemed suddenly to have a life of their own.

Illya knew these symptoms were fleeting and rode them out stoically in the hope that the adrenaline overdose would somehow sublimate whatever THRUSH drug was currently infusing his system. He wiped sweat from his face and set his jaw; he would get through this. After a few moments, he attempted to stand and, finding that the room stayed mostly on an even keel, he made his way over to the fire.

“Coffee,” he muttered. The biochemist in him yammered about too many stimulants and their effect on the heart. Illya tuned it out and reached into the cupboard for one of his many earlier finds: a half-finished bottle of liquid coffee essence. This was a particularly fortuitous discovery, he reflected, as this one contained no chicory, just pure coffee.

“Here goes nothing,” Illya muttered, filling a mug from the cookpot. He dumped the entire contents of the coffee bottle into the warm water and chugged it down without taking a breath. The concentrated caffeine hit his system with an abrupt jolt a few minutes later. 

Illya blinked, expelled a harsh breath, and took stock of his physical condition. His muscles still trembled and he alternated between sleepiness, dizziness, and nausea, but he was as much of a going concern as could be under the circumstances. 

Illya donned his outer clothing and made his unsteady way out to the wood store, returning with a pair of old but serviceable skis. He had taken note of their presence while fetching firewood, thinking that Ivanova could use them once the weather allowed them to leave. He also brought Ivanova’s own two ski poles. His grim smile of satisfaction widened as he unearthed his goggles from deep in his pack. Ivanova was not the only one to keep secrets, Illya reflected, and she would have done well to have searched him more thoroughly before taking off in such haste. His lack of weaponry was a concern but he had no option but to live with that. His lost communicator was also an issue but – Illya found himself smiling again – if Ivanova kept the device on her person, the homing beacon Illya had activated earlier when the blizzard died down should lead his partner, and the UNCLE extraction team, directly to her.

Feeling as ready to tackle the journey as he would ever be, Illya shouldered his pack, donned his goggles and stepped out into the bright sunshine. As he turned to close the door, he noted the bowl of chocolate pieces still in the middle of the table. He averted his eyes and stepped resolutely into his skis.

 

Napoleon’s head jerked up as his communicator hummed at him. Caplan saw the movement and sat up, putting aside her steaming cup of coffee.

Napoleon held up the pencil-thin device and smiled broadly.

“What is it?” Caplan asked curiously.

“Illya,” Napoleon replied succinctly. “It’s his homing device. Either he's just activated it, or it's just come within range.” 

He rose to his feet. “My dear,” he said, “let us repair below decks to your state of the art navigation system. With the aid of my communicator, I think we should be able to pinpoint my partner’s position to within a few feet.”

He favoured her with another wide smile. “And then I think we should break out the skiing gear, don’t you?”

Napoleon strode purposefully from the room in the direction of the hold. 

Caplan rose to her feet more slowly and leaned her hands against the table top. She shook her head.

“I only hope you’re right, Napoleon,” she sighed, “or we’re headed for a whole heap of trouble: Kuryakin’s not the only one who can activate an UNCLE homer.”

She picked up her coffee and followed in his wake.

 

Somewhat to his surprise, Illya was making good time in the mountains. The snow was thick and undisturbed, somewhat powdery, and visibility was less than ideal, but Illya was not named UNCLE’s top cold-weather expert for nothing. For the most part, he was able to follow Ivanova’s tracks, blindingly obvious in the bright sunshine, but with a shrewd insight born of long experience, he managed to negotiate several shortcuts, saving himself much time. The lingering effects of the THRUSH drug hampered full clarity of thought, and his skis were heavy and cumbersome compared with the set Ivanova had stolen from him, but Illya’s dogged determination and snow skills were paying off; he was steadily gaining on his quarry. 

Illya judged that the lack of goggles and a second pole would seriously hamper Ivanova’s progress and when, after about an hour’s hard skiing, he lifted his binoculars to the horizon and caught a glimpse of a moving speck, he knew his assessment of the situation had been correct.

The discovery spurred him on to speeds greater than he had ever dared before. Illya flew across the snow, dodging obstacles, working out his strategy on the hoof, adrenaline lending him an intense excitement he had never before experienced on snow. The biochemist in him whispered that he would pay heavily for his elation later, but Illya only urged his body on to greater efforts, faster speeds, his mouth stretched in a rictus grin of unearthly exhilaration. 

Illya knew immediately when Ivanova had spotted his pursuit. Her speed abruptly increased and her tracks told him she was taking many risks to try to put distance between them. Nevertheless, he doggedly continued to gain ground and when he drew close enough to see her clearly, she turned like a cornered animal. Head whipping frantically from side to side, Ivanova spotted a link to another slope – a precarious-looking ice bridge – and in desperation she skied quickly across it, stopping dead on the far edge. Illya swept down towards her, did a swift parallel turn and halted on the verge, waiting. Ivanova unslung Illya’s carbine and aimed directly at him from across the ravine. 

“Don’t come any further, Illya,” she said warningly. Her breath came in sharp pants and her body sagged with exhaustion.

Illya ignored her words and took a step forward onto the perilous ice. Ivanova jerked the barrel of the gun downwards, aiming at the snow beneath her feet.

“Stop, or I take out bridge and you with it!” Ivanova shrieked, sighting her gun on the thinnest part.

Illya halted but did not move back. “It’s the end of the road, Nataliya,” he told her. “There’s nowhere left to run.”

“I’m warning you,” Ivanova told him. “Get back to other side – now!” She brandished the carbine. “Don’t try anything, Illya,” she cautioned. “I am THRUSH agent, your sworn enemy. You know I won’t hesitate.”

Illya spread his hands. “Last night you were in my bed,” he told her. “Do you expect me to believe you would shoot me now, out of hand in cold blood?” His eyes were very blue in the bright sunlight.

Ivanova tightened her hold on the carbine. “You had better be very sure about that, Illya,” she told him grimly. “Did you honestly think what happened between us was anything more than…than basic biology? Were you really so deluded as to believe that I had fallen in love with you?” 

Ivanova gave a cracked laugh. “Games for children, Illya Nickovetch,” she told him mockingly. “I do not have one sentimental bone left in my body; the KGB saw to that. I want my freedom and if I have to, I’ll kill you for it!” She sighted on the bridge once more.

Illya nodded at his own weapon held in her hands. “And I suppose you’ve loaded my gun with more of your hollow-point ammo,” he said starting to move carefully forward again. “The stuff that would take my spine out at close range, yes? That would be messy, Nataliya. Have you got the stomach for it? To do that to someone whose skin you caressed only hours before? Whose kisses made you sigh and moan? Whose body you welcomed into your own…”

“Stop it!” Ivanova swung the carbine directly in front of her. “Stop it _now!”_ She clenched her jaw hard. Illya held up his hands in surrender but he did not move from the bridge.

Ivanova’s eyes glittered; she swallowed, hefted the carbine once again. “Did you find any expanding ammo when you searched my pack, Illya?” she demanded. “No, you didn’t, because that was reserved for Mengele alone. I had to be sure, you understand. But I am not an animal.”

“Because he was a war criminal and you couldn’t stomach what he did?” Illya frowned. Something still did not quite add up but he had no time to ponder it. Firmly, he dragged his thoughts into the foreground.

“THRUSH doesn’t tolerate failure, Natasha,” he told her pityingly. “You were told to bring Mengele in; instead you killed him, and you allowed yourself to be captured by UNCLE into the bargain. Those things will be your death warrant, whatever else you give them.”

Ivanova smiled. “They only have your word for who captured who,” she told him, “and if I kill you now, no one will ever know.”

“Then why haven’t you already done so?” Illya shot back. Ivanova’s face twisted and she looked away.

Illya tried again. “Natasha, please,” he said. “Give UNCLE a chance. I’ll do everything I can to ensure you’re treated fairly.”

Ivanova stared at him but her eyes were empty. Her shoulders slumped and she let the carbine droop.

“It is no good, Illya,” she said. Tears started to leak down her cheeks. “No good – don’t you see?” Her voice was thick with emotion. “The best I can hope for is to be sent back to KGB and imprisoned, probably executed.”

“But Mengele’s notes…?” Illya protested.

Ivanova shook her head wildly. “No!” she shouted, “Do you not understand, even now? _There are no notes!_ I destroyed them.”

Illya’s jaw dropped in disbelief. “You did what?” he managed.

Ivanova laughed hysterically through her tears. 

“Your hearing is perfectly good, Illya, believe me,” she told him. “After I located Mengele’s body, I stole his pack and escaped from you. Later, I searched it and found handwritten notes. I tore them up into tiny little pieces and threw them into ravine. I watched as wind caught them, swirled them around into pretty patterns and buried them in snow. They will be scattered over several square miles now after blizzard.”

Illya was lost for words. “But… why?” he finally managed.

“Because I like world as it is, Illya!” the Russian woman declared passionately. “Oh, I know much is still wrong – starvation, torture, injustice, inequality, many things – but at least mankind is free to make own mistakes. THRUSH would have all of us ruled under iron fist with threat of genocide hanging over our heads every day of our lives. That might be how my life has worked out, but it's not good reason to condemn future generations to same fate!”

Ivanova was crying openly now, heedless of the freezing wind. She turned to Illya imploringly.

“I never expected to survive mission,” she said, “but you saved me. You saved my life, Illya, rather than letting me freeze to death in snow as you should have. Illya, my love, can you see now? Do you understand now why I can’t come with you?”

“But THRUSH,” Illya protested in bewilderment. “They’ll kill you once they know how you’ve betrayed them.”

Ivanova gave him an anguished look. “At least it will be quick,” she said simply. “That’s how they treat failure – a bullet in back of head and unmarked grave. If I come with you, it will be like dying by degrees. I would rather it happened quickly.”

“Listen, Natasha,” Illya began urgently, thinking fast, “Even though you have destroyed something ground-breaking that UNCLE badly wanted, Mr Waverley cannot help but agree that in the long run, removing Mengele’s invention from the game was the best possible outcome. Your actions will save UNCLE from an impossible moral dilemma, and for that Section One will owe you a considerable debt, believe me.

“I will vouch for you,” he continued. “I will explain to Mr Waverly why you cannot go back to the Soviet Union in terms that he will understand, and I will plead your case in the strongest possible terms to Section One. At least this way you’ll have a chance, Natasha!”

Illya paused for a moment then stretched out a hand to her across the ravine.

“Come with me,” he pleaded. “Come back to Istanbul with me and give yourself up to UNCLE. You’ll have a life, I promise. We don’t deal with people in the same way as THRUSH.”

Ivanova put a hand over her mouth and sobbed uncontrollably.

Impulsively, Illya made as if to move towards her and instantly Ivanova jerked the barrel of her carbine towards him.

“Stay there!” she barked.

A single rifle shot shattered the silence and the Russian woman stiffened, eyes wide and terrified. Then almost in slow motion, her body tipped over the side of the bridge to fall silently into the abyss.

_“God, no!”_

Illya was unaware of his helpless cry. He snapped off his skis and ran straight onto the ice bridge, careless of his own safety. He fell to his knees and stared into the chasm, frozen with horror. 

“Natasha!” he shouted, leaning into the void, his hand grasping fruitlessly at the air. “ _Natasha – no!”_

Illya’s agonised yell slammed back and forth between the surrounding peaks. He reached out with helpless arms as if to defy gravity and draw Ivanova’s lifeless body back out of the ravine. The silence, when it fell, was all-encompassing. 

 

Napoleon Solo found his partner still on the bridge some little time later, arms wrapped around his torso, rocking slowly backwards and forwards. Illya’s whole body twitched with cold, exhaustion and the aftereffects of the cocktail of chemicals that had kept him going for the past few hours. Napoleon stepped carefully out onto the ice, Caplan taking up the rear.

“Did you take the shot, Napoleon?” Illya asked through teeth clenched to stop them chattering. He didn’t turn around.

Solo was breathing heavily. “She was going to kill you, Illya,” he said. “It had to be done.”

Illya stood up with difficulty and turned to his partner. He shook his head, his face twisted in grief. 

“I said did _you_ take the shot?” Illya repeated more loudly. He grabbed Solo by the lapels and shook him; his breath came in short gasps.

“I took the shot,” Caplan answered quietly from behind them.

“On my orders,” Solo confirmed, offering no resistance.

Illya released his partner and slowly wheeled round to face Caplan. 

“She wasn’t going to shoot me,” he told her.

Caplan nodded. “We didn’t know that,” she replied.

Illya took a deep breath and let it out. “No,” he said flatly. “No, you didn’t.”

He looked down into the ravine one last time then turned his back and walked off the ice bridge. Solo flanked him, patting his shoulder awkwardly. Caplan shouldered her rifle and followed them mutely down the mountain towards the coast.


	11. Debriefing (Epilogue)

Reporting on the Affair at UNCLE Istanbul was every bit as embarrassing as Napoleon had anticipated. To say that Waverly was not best pleased would be akin to saying that Kuryakin was not a Canadian. To compound the discomfiture, Adem Osman was also present, as Caplan’s boss and Head of UNCLE Istanbul. Napoleon put on his best game face while inwardly squirming.

“Well, Gentleman and Lady,” Waverly rasped, clearly missing his pipe and humidor, “I think this Affair could best be described as a comedy of errors, quite frankly.”

Osman tapped his upper lip with a pencil but said nothing.

“It was supposed to be a simple extraction,” Waverly continued severely. “Instead you lost both the Mark and his research to a THRUSH assassin, you caused an International incident in the Black Sea, and you left UNCLE with the difficult job of smoothing over political feathers severely ruffled by your bungling. Then to add insult to injury, instead of capturing the THRUSH agent as you should have, you were responsible for her death,” Kuryakin shifted uncomfortably in his seat, “and we now owe the KGB a considerable amount of explanation. They are seriously displeased at losing their operative, even if she had gone rogue. The Soviet Security Services prefer to clean up their own problems and they get extremely twitchy if someone else does it for them.”

Waverly’s attention swung over to Daniella Caplan. “And as for you, young lady,” he frowned underneath his bushy eyebrows, “your conflict of interest should have been declared from the outset. Fortunately, I can’t find any evidence that it caused problems in this current mission, but there is no doubt that you could have endangered your fellow agents.” Caplan bit her lip and lowered her eyes.

“Sir, If I may ask…” Napoleon put in hesitantly.

Waverly frowned mightily at his heir-apparent then gave an impatient sigh . “Oh, very well, Mr Solo,” he said, sitting back in his chair. “Miss Caplan’s Chief, Mr Wiesenthal, has always been aware of Ernst Mengele but has never been able to successfully track him down. Miss Caplan was charged to bring him back to Israel to face prosecution for war crimes.”

“So you weren’t after his brother Josef at all?” Napoleon’s surprise was genuine.

Caplan shook her head. “Not specifically, no,” she replied. “Bringing in Ernst would have raised my profile quite high enough, thank you. As it is, I’ve been recalled to MOSSAD as from next week.” She winced theatrically.

“Yes,” grumbled Waverley, “and where we’re going to find another UNCLE agent who speaks fluent Turkish, I really don’t know. You young people have no idea the trouble your constant gadding about costs this organisation!”

“With respect, sir,” Napoleon ventured, “I must point out that although MOSSAD failed to secure Ernst Mengele, and UNCLE did not receive the benefits of his research, at least neither fell into the hands of either THRUSH or the Chinese administration – or indeed the hardliners in the Soviet Government – and thus the world would seem to have been saved once again from a terrible fate.”

Waverly nodded grudgingly. “I suppose there is something in that, Mr Solo,” he allowed.

Napoleon leaned forward, covering the lower half of his face with his hand.

“Let’s hear it for Nataliya Annushkin Ivanova,” he said sotto voce, for Kuryakin’s ears only. For his part, Kuryakin gave no sign of having heard.

Having been released with a final admonition to try to follow orders to the letter in future, the three agents found themselves in the corridor outside Adem Osman’s office making their collective way towards the exit. Napoleon gallantly offered his arm to Caplan which she accepted with a smile; Kuryakin trailed after them silently.

“Well, Miss Caplan,” Napoleon said ruefully, enveloping her small hand in his larger one, “We never made it past the prelude, did we?”

Caplan squeezed his fingers and smiled. “It’s Daniella, remember?” she replied, “Particularly now that I’m leaving.” She sighed. 

“My flight to Tel Aviv departs tomorrow morning,” she told him regretfully, “and I have four years of my life here to pack up in the space of a few short hours. Sadly, I’m afraid it’s too late for us.”

Napoleon lifted her hand to his mouth and brushed his lips gently against her knuckles. 

“We should have taken our chances while we could,” he declared, his eyes wide and sincere. Caplan gave an exaggerated sigh and shook her head at his antics. 

“Love in the heat of battle, you mean?” she replied, amused. She laid a hand on his cheek affectionately and kissed his mouth gently but warmly. 

“Take care, Napoleon,” she told him, “and come see me the next time you’re in Tel Aviv. I’ve a feeling I’m going to be there a while.” Her tone was chagrined but the sparkle in her eye when she spoke of her home country was very evident.

“Oh, um, Miss Caplan?” 

The girl turned as Kuryakin spoke. She raised her eyebrows.

“I gather Mr Wiesenthal is still interested in the whereabouts of Josef Mengele, yes?” Kuryakin asked diffidently.

Caplan’s eyes narrowed. “Too right, he is,” she replied with emphasis. “What have you got, Kuryakin?”

Kuryakin shook his head. “Very little, I’m afraid,” he replied, “but if Mr Wiesenthal is prepared to follow up a long shot, he could do worse than South America; Paraguay, specifically.”

The corners of Caplan’s mouth curved upwards. “A little bird told you, I’m guessing,” she said gently. 

Kuryakin shrugged. “Perhaps,” he replied not quite meeting her eyes.

Caplan’s expression softened. She placed her hands on his shoulders and pecked his cheek; he suffered the attention without flinching.

She looked into his face. “Thank you,” she said quietly, “and I’m sorry.” If Kuryakin heard her words, he gave no sign.

Caplan flipped the two agents an American-style military salute with her left hand and swung off with a jaunty grin. Napoleon gave a half-hearted wave in response and turned back to his partner with a disappointed grimace.

Kuryakin was shaking his head. “It’s a bad idea,” he said to Napoleon.

“What is?” Napoleon frowned.

“Love in the heat of battle,” Kuryakin’s face was grave and he sighed. “Believe me, Napoleon, you’re better off as you are.”

Napoleon paused for a moment with his lips parted, then decided not to follow that one up. “Drink?” he suggested instead.

Kuryakin made a show of looking where his wristwatch wasn’t, then tilted Napoleon’s arm towards himself. 

“It’s a little early, isn’t it?” he replied, squinting at the numbers.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Napoleon replied easily. “The sun is over the yardarm somewhere in the world at this very moment, _tovarisch._ ”

He put a hand on Kuryakin’s shoulder. “My friend,” he said quietly, “It’s never too early to drown your sorrows.” He turned to guide Kuryakin out through Reception.

“What makes you think I need to?” Kuryakin demanded.

Napoleon gave his partner a bright shrewd glance but merely shrugged in response. “Bar Moskva serves a mean Margarita at any time of day,” he replied neutrally.

Kuryakin sighed. “And don’t tell me,” he riposted, “All the waitresses are blonde.”

Napoleon’s generous mouth broke into a wide grin. He opened the door into Holy Trinity Church and ushered his partner through with a hand on his shoulder.

“Who knows, my friend,” he replied. “Who knows.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Josef Mengele was was the subject of a mock-trial _in absentia_ in Jerusalem in 1985, where the testimony of more than one hundred of his victims ensured his conviction for war crimes. It later emerged that he had died in 1979 in Brazil having suffered a stroke while swimming in the sea. Simon Wiesenthal was an Austrian Jew who survived internment in Nazi Germany and later became a dedicated Nazi hunter. He was a key figure in uncovering the whereabouts of a number of high-profile Nazis including the notorious Adolf Eichmann. However, Josef Mengele always managed to stay one step ahead of Wiesenthal's pursuit. Ivanova's hint to Illya that Mengele might be found in Paraguay was correct but out of date - by the early sixties Mengele had already moved on to Brazil. Ernst Mengele exists nowhere but in my own imagination. Daniella Caplan is also fictional, but MOSSAD were training women like her as early as 1959. Illya's claim that the KGB only used "specialists" for honey-trap operations is probably not true, but it made Ivanova's claim to have no choice but to defect to THRUSH seem a little more logical.


End file.
